


the rebel french

by green_postit



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-23
Updated: 2012-11-23
Packaged: 2017-11-19 07:24:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_postit/pseuds/green_postit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur barely registers the bullet through his knee. It's the second bullet that does it: hits him square in the chest, takes him clean off his feet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. two against one

**Author's Note:**

> Amazing translation by maiguancai [here](http://maiguancai.livejournal.com/7166.html).
> 
> [Something I'm so beyond honored to have had made](http://labarricade.tumblr.com/post/36393427109/best-arthur-and-eames-fics-1-the-rebel-french)

Arthur barely registers the bullet through his knee. It's the second bullet that does it: hits him square in the chest, takes him clean off his feet.

His head hits the floor with a crack that fractures his vision into bright, white flashes. For a moment, Arthur swims with nausea. Acidic bile presses in his throat only to pass when agony floods his body.

He screams once. The sound carries in the museum.

His limbs are suddenly frozen, his fingers bleached white. His body is numb, save for the blistering heat from the bullets. His lungs feel like blocks in his chest—every breath a labored, uneasy, _painful_ feat.

His blood pools against his cheek. He tries to reach out—wants to collect it all in his hands and scoop it back inside him—but he can't will a single atom of his body to move. He whimpers, pathetic, suddenly terrified.

He hopes the other officers are on their way.

He survived three tours of duty in Afghanistan and four years with the LAPD without so much as a paper cut. He doesn't want to die like this—too slow to dodge a badly aimed bullet to the heart by a couple of married architects moonlighting as high-end art thieves.

Dom and Mal Cobb.

Arthur could have left it alone— _should_ be home right now watching reruns of _Seinfeld_ instead of bleeding out on a floor that costs more to polish than his entire annual income.

But he was always a stubborn bastard, knew the Cobbs wouldn't stop unless they were apprehended in the act. He thought he could be the one to do it, just like he thought he'd caught them by surprise.

He knew Mal had a gun—sensed she was about to shoot a handful of seconds before she did. He tried to avoid her aim, but her shot still ripped through his right knee. It was Cobb he never expected—never even dreamed it possible—to draw his gun and aim for the center of Arthur's forehead like the practice sheets at the shooting range.

He missed, but that didn't matter.

Arthur doesn't want to die here.

Cobb's boots suddenly fill his hazy field of vision. He towers over Arthur like a vengeful god, crouches until his masked face is close enough to kiss and cups his gloved hand against Arthur's cheek in a parody of comfort. It's only when Cobb shushes him the way one would a colicky child, does Arthur realize he's whimpering.

Cobb raises his gun—the stench of gunpowder sickening—and presses the still hot muzzle against Arthur's forehead.

This is how he dies.

\--

And then he wakes up.


	2. au soleil, sous la pluie

Six months, four surgeries, and one metal plate later, Arthur is released from the hospital.

He spends his twenty-seventh birthday in a medically induced coma while surgeons replace a destroyed artery in his heart with a plastic stent. He spends the anniversary of his fifth year on the LAPD force having the cast and screws in his new knee removed.

He's lucky to be alive, he's reminded every day by doctors and nurses. Cobb's bullet had nicked his aorta and the impact shattered his sternum and lodged little bits of bone in his lungs. He'd been medically dead for two minutes before EMTs resuscitated him—died again on the operating table. He now sports two surgical scars that start two inches below his collarbone, ends two inches above his rib.

He has no living family, so on the day of his release, his partner—John Nash—picks him up from the hospital. He has a card signed by a few of the officers he had a semi-regular lunch with—shrugs like it's supposed to make up for the fact not a single cop bothered to visit 'Officer Stick-Up-His-Ass' for the whole six month stretch of his recovery.

Arthur doesn't really give a shit about that. He wants to know what the police discovered about the Cobbs after his shooting.

Nash tells him what he pretty much knows: that they'd found an impression of a boot in Arthur's blood and the experts in the crime labs figured out the shoe-size (10) and the weight (about 180) of the assailant.

It's a rough match to Dom Cobb.

\--

He's not allowed back on active duty without eight sanctioned therapy sessions and a note from a psychiatrist saying he won't crack and shoot up the station.

Every morning Arthur hobbles down the three flights of stairs in his piece of shit apartment to make it to his physiotherapy appointments. Every afternoon he leaves the hospital exhausted and in such unbearable pain he's taken to popping vicodin for hour-long stretches of relief.

Eight therapy sessions come and go and Arthur still hasn't heard from his captain. It's not good news.

Even though it makes his lungs ache, he starts smoking again, starts eating too much takeout and cold vegetable soup straight out of the can. He goes through the four packs of cigarettes he had scattered around his messy apartment, burns through his TiVo queue, watches so much online porn his wrist starts to cramp. He hasn't shaved or showered in over a week, has beat every level of _Angry Birds_ on his iPhone.

After he wakes up on a half eaten pizza he'd taken to his bed the night before, he realizes this is a fucking _stellar_ start to a second chance at life.

\--

When Arthur was released from the hospital, his eighty-three year old neighbor handed him a banana bread loaf and half a years worth of mail she'd kept in a plastic grocery bag that smelled heavily of flour. He dumped the bag by his garbage can in favor of being able to jerk off in his own bed and then crash for ten uninterrupted hours of sleep.

He'd completely forgotten about the bag until he almost trips over it en route to his junk drawer, hoping to find a functioning lighter somewhere in the clutter. He upends his mail on the living room floor, spends the better part of the day going through everything. It's mostly bills and food flyers—some spam, a few paycheck stubs, a couple of letters from his insurance packed with forms to fill out.

One letter stands out.

The envelope is smooth like silk, crisp to the touch. His name and address are inked out with meticulous, artistic precision. The return address is for a Kazuya Saito—the man whose painting had been the target of the Cobb robbery Arthur foiled by bleeding out all over the floor.

Saito's letter starts off with dramatic flourish—says the bullet that burst through Arthur's chest was clearly meant for him—that Arthur's heroism saved his life. It's bold and over-the-top, but the gratitude pours into Arthur's body, reminds Arthur why he became a soldier.

Saito ends the letter saying he wishes to repay Arthur for his bravery and intuition.

He offers Arthur a job.

There's a first class plane ticket to Paris with no departure or return date inside the envelope. Beside that, a Proclus Global business card with a European phone number circled in dark, red ink. 'Call me' is written in bold, block letters.

Arthur does.

\--

Saito picks up after one ring.

"Mr. Levine," he greets in a warm, deep voice. Saito's English is heavily accented but practiced and confident. "I have been waiting for your call for quite some time."

Saito doesn't wait for him to reply, launches into the job offer as if it's a done deal, as if Arthur's already packed his bags and is awaiting further instruction.

It's an incredibly effective approach.

Arthur only has to listen to the pitch for about a minute. Saito says his current head of security has just retired and he want Arthur to take over the organization and maintenance of his security team, that he wants him at the front and center of all future security for his company.

Arthur thanks Saito for the offer, tells him he's flattered but he isn't a security guard. He's a police officer—before that, a point man in the army.

He's used to chasing down insurgents and criminals, not employees stealing boxes of pens and paper clips.

Saito tells him that's exactly why he wants him: his old head of security never had the instincts, the knowledge of danger and how to conquer it.

"I do not wish for you to squander your second opportunity at life, Mr. Levine," Saito says gravely.

The words affect Arthur more than the salary. He looks at his dark, tiny apartment, at the piles of unwashed laundry and dishes—at _himself_.

He'd felt it when he first left the hospital, couldn't put his finger on it until now. He has nothing left to give Los Angeles. He’s not a cop anymore.

He asks Saito when he can start.

\--

A shiny black town car picks Arthur up from Charles de Gaulle and drives him to his new place. Arthur's told he's walking distance from Hotel de Ville and the George Pompidou Center, Notre Dame and the Louvre.

The apartment Saito has for him is fully furnished and roughly double the size of the one he left in LA. It's smack in the heart of the 4th arrondissement. Everywhere he turns there's a café. The smell of rich, dark coffee lingers in the air.

He has a week to get acclimated to Paris—a full-fledged _vacation_ by American standards—before he's to report to the Louvre for his first day organizing the men a billionaire _somehow_ managed to handpick to guard the most expensive and beloved pieces of art in all of history.

Easy-peasy.

\--

When the sun goes down, Paris comes alive.

People fill the streets. Women race by in short, shimmery dresses, while men in pressed button downs and rolled up sleeves greet their friends with loud shouts, cigarettes and beer bottles passed back and forth easily.

Arthur goes to the artisan bar a stone's throw from his apartment. It's small and not quite packed and has an open mic. A stunning Frenchman plays a Piaf song on his guitar, croons out her melancholy with his deep, beautiful voice.

The music makes Arthur's eyes droop, but the strength of the coffee in his cup keeps him wired. He's torn between exhaustion and alertness: foggy and muddled around the edges, but aware.

He nurses his cup in one of the booths, takes in all the effortlessly attractive people and their effortlessly poised bodies. Everyone looks like a model. The women: dainty and peach colored. The men: lean and strong, dashing figures in professional, stylish clothing.

Arthur thinks he could pull that look off. He's always been a jeans and t-shirt guy, but he thinks he could swaddle himself in cottons and wools and silks and blend in with the Parisians.

He's shocked at how appealing that idea is.

\--

Two men approach him throughout the night. Both have dark eyes and dark hair, chapped lips, invitations in their eyes, the soft, flirtatious quirks of their mouths.

Arthur's tempted with each offer—remembers the last time he'd gotten laid had been a rough blowjob from a guy he picked up at a club who scraped his dick raw with his teeth, who then fucked him slow and boring and used too much lube.

He's aching to get fucked, but at the end of the night, Arthur makes the short trek back to his apartment alone, fucks his limp dick into his fist until his breathing pinches his lungs and his heart throbs sharply in his chest.

He gives up when his cock refuses to get hard, goes to bed feeling empty and profoundly, _overwhelmingly_ relieved.

\--

Mornings in Paris are lazy, unwanted.

Arthur's been conditioned since he was eighteen to rise with the sun and can only laze about in bed for so long before he gets bored. He's showered and dressed by eight, only to discovers mostly everything in Paris opens at ten.

He decides to explore the narrow streets and alleys around his apartment—comes across Notre Dame Cathedral and an information booth packed with brochures and maps of all the tourist traps in seven different languages. He grabs one of everything he can find in English.

Around ten, the metal blinds of the nearby stores rattle open; people slowly emerge from buildings; signs that say _fermé_ flip to _ouvert_.

An elderly woman with a tight, glossy bun and a pristine white apron places freshly made croissants in the window of her pastel yellow bakery. Another woman hauls an armful of still steaming baguettes to their display.

Arthur's stomach jerks violently. He's suddenly ravenous.

He walks into the nearest bakery and buys a crunchy baguette with crenulated peaks and a small block of Camembert, olives, and spicy red peppers. He struggles with the French but everyone in Paris speaks shaky English.

He ends up sitting on a bench under some trees near Notre Dame, watches as the small cluster of tourists blossoms into full fledged mobs of people clamoring to take pictures of gargoyles and buttresses.

Arthur cracks open the baguette with his nails—presses the soft cheese, olives and peppers inside—eats an outrageously delicious sandwich while he studies his foldout map—tries to commit the street names to memory the way he did his first week riding shotgun in a squad car.

He'll get the pronunciation eventually.

\--

By midday, the back of his neck is damp with sweat. There's a light breeze that takes away the brunt of the humidity, but Arthur's thirsty and all he's seen so far are displays for Orangina and coffee.

He comes upon an outdoor market along the Seine, fills a bag with enormous bottles of water, perfectly ripe fruit and vegetables, walks past all the fresh fish laid out on mountains of chipped ice to the cart selling homemade bread and massive wheels of cheese.

With enough food for a few days, Arthur begins his walk back to his apartment.

That's when he sees the mime.

\--

For a good thirty seconds, Arthur's only capable of staring at the Parisian stereotype he'd assumed existed only in old political cartoons and on tacky souvenir postcards. He's the embodiment of the cliché right down to the black and white stripped shirt and white gloves, red suspenders and a red beret, the white clay mask with bright red lips puckered into a fat kiss.

The mime's on a street corner, surrounded by a small crowd of women and children watching as he tries to feel his way out of an invisible box. The children are laughing, their parents bored but tolerant. The mime laps up the attention blatantly, gets showier for his adoring audience.

He begins a tug-of-war game with one of the enthusiastic little girls, acts like he's struggling to hold on even though he's got gorgeously broad shoulders with heavy, muscular arms that pull and strain the fabric of his shirt. The little girl laughs delightedly as she gives a mighty tug on the imaginary rope and the mime falls to the ground in defeat.

Arthur joins the crowd.

He's partly fascinated by the mime's ability to convey space and imaginary objects, but mostly watches because the mime's body is so unbelievably hot it's like he crawled out of Arthur's filthiest wet dream. Every motion seems to emphasize his solid, meaty thighs, the ass that would fuck with Arthur's sexuality if he weren't already a decorated queer.

While he's wondering what the mime looks like under the heavy mask, the mime begins to dance. Arthur suddenly hears music where there is none, watches in fascination as the mime delicately takes hold of a woman that doesn't exist and waltzes her grandly around the cooing children.

His hands look very strong.

Arthur's gut knots with arousal. He's not going to have any problems jerking off when he gets home tonight.

It happens within the blink of an eye.

The little boy standing beside Arthur finally loses interest in the strange man in the mask, decides to be a brat and darts his way through the mime's performance. The mime jerks away quickly mid-spin to avoid hitting the boy and swings around in an elaborate twirl to keep himself upright. His elbow jerks out and the full force of his weight and gravity connects against Arthur's nose.

The blow hits him square in the face, takes him clean off his feet.

\--

Arthur wakes in a dark room with a damp, cool cloth across his eyes and forehead.

It's apparent he isn't in his own room—bed firm, pillows soft and plush with goose feathers. He doesn't feel threatened or panicked: his wallet, phone, and keys are stacked on each other within view on a bedside table. Next to them is an unopened bottle of water and two individually wrapped aspirin pills.

He remembers getting hit in the face, but his nose doesn't hurt when he prods it with his cold fingertips. The blood's been cleaned away and the room smells faintly of rubbing alcohol and Hugo Boss.

Even though the blinds are drawn, Arthur's aware it's nighttime—can hear the sounds of drunk, boisterous Parisians outside like a faint hum of traffic. He checks his phone—nearly eleven—and swallows down a hard lump in his throat.

He'd been out for close to eight hours, but he doesn’t feel drugged. He feels the way he would after a good fuck and a full night of sleep.

Relaxed.

Still, waking up in a strange bed leaves Arthur with a sour taste in his mouth.

Then he sees red suspenders thrown carelessly over the back of a chair—a rumpled, black and white stripped shirt hanging half out of a hemp basket. There's a huge vanity with three mirrors angled in conflicting directions, different sized bottles of red, black, and white makeup lay next to a white clay mask with a fat, puckered red kiss.

It's the mime's room.

\--

It takes about a minute for Arthur to shake his sleep numb legs into action. He tosses off the cool sheets and finds his shoes placed neatly by the side of the bed.

Light glows around the doorframe, but Arthur can't hear anything on the opposite side. He turns the knob and pushes the door open slowly, sees a comfortable looking leather couch and coffee table, a TV and lamp and large sliding doors that lead out to a patio that overlooks the Seine.

The apartment is easily bigger than Arthur's by at least three entire rooms, the decor sparse but functional. The light is coming from what has to be the kitchen—the smell of garlic and pepper light in the air. The floorboards don't even creak when Arthur walks over them.

Which is how he almost loses an ear when he inadvertently sneaks up behind a blond man chopping onions.

\--

Arthur sees the knife arc toward him. He reacts with ten years worth of krav maga and the mindless reflexes beaten into him by drill sergeants and training officers. He grabs the wrist holding the blade, twists, and brings them both down to the ground.

It's all over in four seconds.

The body now pinned securely between his legs and arms is stiff with muscle and tension—shock. The knife spins away toward a tiny fridge well out of grabbing range. With the threat secured, Arthur allows the battle fog to clear from his vision, looks down.

And promptly loses his breath.

\--

It's the mime.

And he's gorgeous.

Painfully, _painfully_ , gorgeous.

\--

Arthur stares.

The mime isn't struggling, actually seems perfectly comfortable on the tiled floor of his cramped kitchen with a stranger pinning him at the hips and throat, his wrist twisted and pulled away from the rest of his body.

He's got grey eyes, lush lips, a straight nose. He couldn't be more Arthur's type if he tried—is probably a hallucination brought on by a concussion and pent up sexual frustration.

"Welcome back," he says carefully. He's English. Beautiful.

"Who are you?" Arthur's voice is scratchy. He really wishes he could stop staring at the mime's mouth.

The mime's body relaxes further. Arthur melts that much closer, feels the hard muscles of the mime's chest against his lower belly and ass.

"Eames," he replies evenly. "You don't remember how you got here, do you?"

Arthur shakes his head slowly, tightens the fingers he's got around Eames's wrist cautiously.

"Right then," Eames huffs, darts his eyes away before he looks at Arthur. "I assure you, at the time, you were fully conscious when you arrived at my flat, but then felt dizzy. It appears I knocked you in the head harder than we both thought."

"Great," Arthur says dryly.

"Well, you're all right now, so no harm, hmm?" Eames retorts. He has the kind of captivating energy that Arthur's only ever seen in actors or con men. "And while I really have no objections to this marvelous position you've got me in, I must ask you let me up. My garlic is burning."

Arthur eases away and Eames slides the pan off the stove, straight into the sink. He's wearing a blue and white checked apron with a couple of old oil stains around the bottom, and a pair of worn, navy sweatpants that pool around his feet and hang off his hips and perfect ass. No shirt. His tanned skin and curling black tattoos are there for Arthur's greedy eyes to eat up.

Arthur picks up the knife, hands it back to Eames with an embarrassed smile. "Sorry about—" he doesn't finish, just sweeps his hand around the kitchen awkwardly.

Eames smirks, lips incredibly pink. "S'all right. I banged you up a bit; you banged me up a bit. Next time, let's both try to have a little more fun, yeah?"

Arthur's already wondering if the condom in his wallet is expired or not.

\--

They end up eating the asparagus and lentil puree Arthur bought earlier, the container cracked along the side. Arthur tucks in. The spoon shakes in his hand, his hunger overwhelming. They don't speak throughout the meal, Arthur too consumed with feeding the cramp in his belly. Eames scrutinizes him with heavy, dark eyes. He's barely touched his soup.

"I hope I haven't deterred your vacation any," he says conversationally. "I'm told you Yanks get so little time off to travel and expand your cultural palate." His teasing tone takes away the insult, replaces it with a tentative flirtation.

"This _Yank_ 's cultural palate is plenty expanded. Just here on a little business." Arthur scrapes the bottom of his bowl with his spoon, licks off the last drop saucily.

Eames arches an eyebrow, eyes suddenly suspicious. "And what sort of business do you have in _gaie Paris_?"

There are many ways Arthur can play this—say something flirty, something mysterious, something vague. In the end, he goes for the simplest version of the truth. "New job. I'm a security consultant." Technically. "I used to be a cop, but my last job killed me."

"Well," Eames huffs with a laugh. "Now I feel _awful_ about your face." He touches the corner of Arthur's nose with the faintest hint of pressure, eyes twinkling.

The light brings out Eames's features in the worst ways. From this angle, Arthur can see flecks of blue darkening his iris, the pale, pale hints of freckles that dot his nose. Arthur's stomach clenches to the point of pain. It has nothing to do with hunger this time.

Arthur bites the inside of his cheek, waves off Eames's apology. "I think we're even. I almost broke your wrist after you went out of your way to help a stranger."

"And I'll certainly need full use of my wrist tonight, won't I?" The words are a purr in Eames's generous mouth, his voice clinging to Arthur like sticky, warm caramel.

His large body inches closer, lips wet with spit from his tongue. 

"Was that too forward of me?" Eames doesn't look bashful, his body poised for action, filled with intention.

"I like forward." And Arthur does—actually finds it as hot as most foreplay.

"Then aren't I a lucky boy." Eames's voice makes Arthur's skin flush.

He has to get out of the room—hell, the _city_ —before he does something rash.

Like handcuff Eames to the headboard in his room and ride him until he's half bred.

"I should probably—" Arthur starts, is interrupted by Eames's fingers gently curling on his shoulder, a gentle pressure to keep him in place.

"No, stay the night," Eames says, voice lazy, syrup thick. "I'm growing quite fond of the idea of you between my sheets." His eyes are incredibly direct, voice firm—just a little spoiled—used to getting what it wants.

Arthur feels a shiver zip through his belly as Eames guides him back to his bedroom. The thought of Eames climbing in next to him, rumpled and warm, meaty body just a little clumsy and desperate, his beautiful mouth sluggish and hot—is enough to make Arthur pause at the foot of the bed, look back—hopeful.

Eames eyes him as if he can read every thought flickering through his mind.

"Christ, you're tempting." Eames lingers at the door, straddles the threshold, before he squares his shoulders, straightens his back and quietly leaves.

When the door shuts, most of the room dims back to darkness.

With nothing better to do, Arthur slides down the bed, pulls the covers up to his chin.

His dick is aching in his jeans, already wet at the tip. He presses his palm sharply against the base of his cock, wills himself to calm down, readies himself for a struggle and then surprises himself by dropping off to sleep easily.

\--

Arthur wakes to a dip in the bed behind him.

It takes only a moment to remember where he is—whose bed he's in. The smell of Hugo Boss is strong in the air.

 _Eames_.

Except when Arthur rolls over, the man perched on the bed isn't Eames, but might actually be the most attractive person he's ever seen. The man scrutinizes Arthur with impassive blue eyes, his mouth turned down in a disapproving frown. He's angry—that much is apparent—but the kind of anger that Arthur's only ever seen on the faces of scorned men and women—lovers involved in crimes of passion.

The man snarls at Arthur—eyes frigid—before he angrily pushes off the bed and storms out of the room.

It takes Arthur's sleep-fogged brain about five minutes to piece together what he just witnessed.

Then he feels like a complete idiot.

Of course Eames wouldn't be single. He's clearly with the only man in the world more attractive than he is. Now Arthur feels just as angry as Eames's boyfriend. 

He hates being taken advantage of.

He kicks off the sheets and grabs his wallet and keys. He wants to get out of the apartment before Eames and his boyfriend start to really go at it.

He makes it to the bedroom door just as Eames walks in with a plate of scrambled eggs and large slabs of toast, gleaming with butter. The smile on his face immediately vanishes when he sees Arthur standing, looking murderous and vaguely ill.

A door slams down the hallway—displeasure ringing through the apartment.

Eames is apparently much quicker at piecing scenarios together than Arthur. His eyes sharpen with understanding within a second. He sighs heavily, places the plate and cutlery on the beside-table.

"I take it you've met my _charming_ flatmate."

It's not a question, so Arthur doesn't respond.

Eames shakes his head, voice chipper again. "Ignore whatever that wanker's said. He's been in a foul mood since he got in."

He hops on his bed—all sunny smiles—smoothes out the sheets and pats the spot beside him. "Now sit down. I went through all the trouble to make you breakfast and I'll only let you go once you've eaten every last bite."

Arthur's gut is telling him to get the hell out. Too many things don't quite add up the way they did last night when he was too high on arousal and hunger to properly think—Eames too jerk-off fantasy hot to be single in a city filled with beautiful people—to not be fucking his gorgeous roommate that acts like a jealous lover.

But here Eames is, looking at Arthur with an eager, bright smile on his face—like he's hoping Arthur will sit down next to him and pick at the steaming plate perched on his compact thighs.

Arthur should have left the second he regained enough consciousness to walk in a straight line, but he doesn't want to leave just yet.  
So he doesn't.

\--

"I like this neighborhood," Eames says fondly.

He’d insisted on walking Arthur to his apartment, helped carry the groceries. In the light, his eyes are magnetic. Arthur didn't stand a chance saying no.

"Have you been to the cafe at the end of Saint Martin? It has the most incredible chocolate brioche in the city."

"I haven't really been anywhere," Arthur admits. They're nearing his apartment. He deliberately slows his pace. "I've only been in the city two days and spent the majority of yesterday unconscious after a mime assaulted me."

"Assaulted now, is it?" Eames laughs, tips his head right back. "Even after I took such wonderful care of you? And made you supper?"

"Technically you heated a supper I bought for myself," Arthur points out. They're at his door.

"Mmm," Eames rumbles. "Suppose I do owe you a proper meal." He crowds Arthur against his entrance, lightly cups the groove of Arthur's hip with his thumbs, leans in close enough for Arthur to smell his cologne, to see the tiny scar above his eyebrow. He smells so goddamn good. Arthur swallows greedily.

Eames's voice, when he speaks, is so low it hits Arthur like a shot of adrenaline. "But I've already had you in my bed, darling. Asking you to dinner seems a bit superfluous."

Arthur leans into the fingers on his hip. He wants this—wants Eames. So he takes.

"Ask me, anyway."

Eames smiles, asks.

\--

They makes plans for Friday—two days time—at a place called Le Petit Picard that's apparently close to Arthur's apartment.

Eames doesn't have a cell phone and spends a minute digging through his satchel looking for a pen to write down Arthur's number—inks it neatly across his forearm and rolls his shirt down to cover it. He looks insufferably pleased the whole time he's writing. Arthur can't get over how gorgeous he is in the sunlight.

"10pm, don't make me fetch you, darling," Eames says as he parts, full mouth pulled into a playful smile. Arthur watches him leave, appreciates the view.

The grocery bags digging into his wrist make their presence felt when Eames rounds the corner and disappears. Arthur quickly punches in his passcode, darts up the narrow stairs and spends a minute shifting bags to get at his keys. His place is quiet and filled with light, pleasantly warm.

He shoves all his groceries into his empty fridge, makes a beeline for the shower—washes off the dried sweat and sour sleep smell, jerks off twice. He thinks of Eames.

Afterward, he feels incredible, like his body is finally recharged after walking around depleted for months.

\--

He's eating lunch when he gets a meeting request from Saito. It's for the Tuesday before his first official day at work, scheduled for noon.

Saito e-mails him less than a minute after he accepts, says he's expected at a boutique in the 12th arrondissement at 2pm for some new work attire. He says to ask for Genevieve and not to be late.

Arthur figures it's about as subtle as Saito gets.

\--

Arthur lost fifteen pounds of muscle during his recovery—has so far only managed to put five back on.

He's thinner, but the clothes Genevieve hand him look too narrow to fit a stop sign. Everything she pulls off hangars and displays have starched collars, tiny buttons, and need cufflinks. His clothes have always erred on the side of comfortable. His police uniform was Dacron, heavy, almost completely tear and stain resistant—itchy and hot. Whenever he was graced with enough off time, he was usually at a bar or at his home, and neither place ever required a formal dress code.

He tries to tell her this, but Genevieve's English is as comprehensible as his French. They communicate mostly by her draping clothing over his arms and him silently marching off to the changing room.

When he puts everything on, the pants fit perfectly around his hips, hug his ass—the shirts frame his lean torso without a spare inch of fabric wasted. He's given deep reds, rich blues and dark greens, sharply cut suit jackets in jet black and dove grey.

Genevieve stands close enough to the fabric curtain she might as well be in the changing room with him. She barely waits for him to button or zip anything up, clucks and picks of the hems and collars critically before declaring a prim _non_ or _parfait_.

There's a lot more clothing in the _parfait_ pile.

At the end of two hours, Arthur's knee starts to ache. He rubs at the scar through his jeans, hungry again. He passed a hole in the wall crepe stand on his way to the boutique and has been mentally picking out his toppings since Genevieve ushered him to a wall devoted to ties and tie clips.

The final tally is astronomical, and that's before Arthur mentally does the conversion to the euro. Everything he bought is folded neatly and packed into boxes stuffed with tissue paper and wrapped with a red ribbon. Genevieve looks incredibly pleased that he has purchased enough clothing to hypothetically never have to wear what he's currently wearing again.

Ten minutes later, Arthur realizes he might not be cut out for the haute couture of Paris when he hits up the crepe stand and drips melted Nutella all down the front of his ratty shirt.

\--

The Petit Picard is a quaint restaurant exactly five minutes from Arthur's apartment.

He walked past it on his way back from the Louvre, saw dozens of gay couples sitting side by side, sharing plates packed with pastas and meats and cheeses. All the reviews he translated with Google say the food and atmosphere are excellent.

At 9:45, Arthur gives himself a quick once-over, runs his palms over the indigo colored shirt Genevieve picked out that made her go a little foggy-eyed. With his hair slicked back, Arthur can't get over how Parisian he looks—could easily be mistaken for one so long as he didn't have to speak.

Overall, he thinks he looks good.

It's confirmed when he gets to the restaurant and the men inside eye him with jealousy, with lust. A couple propositions him after five minutes of staring and rushed whispers between themselves. They're both hot, but Arthur's waiting for someone hotter.

\--

By 10:30, Arthur's pissed that he didn't take the couple up on their offer.

Eames has clearly stood him up—didn't bother to call with excuses, just flat out didn't show.

Arthur's smoked three cigarettes in a row, right down to the filter, and still doesn't feel calm. He’s irritated and duped, like a pathetic, clingy boyfriend who couldn't take a hint. People are starting to eye him—pity in their gazes.

He has no idea why he's still at the restaurant.

He places a twenty-euro bill under the heavy candle centerpiece for the waitress who tactfully refilled his coffee cup over and over without pushing food upon him or pressuring him to leave despite the crowd of people outside waiting to get in and eat.

The air outside feels cooler against Arthur's flushed cheeks even though the restaurant was air-conditioned.

He scrubs at his eyes to wipe away the lingering haze of smoke and candlelight and when he blinks away the white spots, he sees Eames casually strolling down the street, hands tucked into the back pockets of a pair of loose grey pants that hang below his hips. He's wearing a striped lilac shirt that will definitely make his eyes look incredible. His hair is parted stiffly with gel, neatly combed to the right side.

He looks like he's stepped out of Genevieve's raunchiest fashion fantasies.

He's even hotter than Arthur remembered.

"Oi!" Eames is all smiles, voice warm and playful. He waves, draws the last few pairs of eyes that weren't already staring at him like he was a movie star.

Arthur's temper explodes all in that one moment—at Eames's nonchalance, at his gall. It strikes Arthur that Eames is the kind of cocky attractive man who'd purposefully keep people waiting—people who _will_ wait for him no matter how late he arrives.

He's always been exceptional at reading people in the heat of the moment—would know if a shooter would actually pull the trigger or if they could be talked down—Cobb still the only exception to date. Right now, Arthur can see it so clearly in Eames's eyes—in his stance—how goddamn _positive_ he was that Arthur would dutifully— _mindlessly_ —keep a vigil at that table until the wait staff ushered him out at the end of the night.

Disgust roils deep in Arthur's gut.

He turns on his heels, faces the opposite direction. He makes it three steps before he hears someone running behind him, Eames's voice close.

"And where are you off to in such a rush?"

"Home." Arthur's in no mood to be coy.

"Marvelous! I'll join you."

Eames doesn't appear to understand that Arthur is _furious_.

"No," Arthur spins around, stops him in his tracks with the flat of his palm, "you _certainly_ will not."

Eames's chest is a solid wall of muscle.

"What's wrong?" Eames sounds genuinely confused. His hand darts out quickly to catch Arthur's hip, squeezes to keep him in place. All the playfulness is gone, his eyes hard and serious, mouth turned down at the corners in a frown.

Arthur's actually impressed. Eames is conning him—maybe not intentionally—but Arthur knows con men, knows liars. Eames is all smoky subterfuge, voice pitched just right to emphasize his bewilderment, his eyes wide yet hard—puzzled. He's a hell of an actor. Arthur should have figured that out when he watched him silently captivate an audience on a busy street corner days before.

But Arthur's dick was doing most of his thinking that first night—the head injury probably not helping. He's aware the only reason he hasn't been listening to his instincts regarding Eames is because of how distractingly gorgeous he is—how badly he wants to sleep with him.

"Listen," Arthur huffs. "I'm not interested in forcing you to be here, ok? If you felt guilty or was worried I was gonna sue you or whatever, don't be. It was an accident. You're forgiven."

Eames's fingers clench painfully on his hip, nails digging into the flesh. "What in the hell are you nattering on about?"

"You stood me—" Arthur begins.

Eames scoffs. "Clearly that isn't the case now, isit?"

Arthur tries to pull away from Eames's grip—is shocked to find that he can't. There's serious strength coiling through Eames's body. Eames reluctantly lets Arthur go, drops his hand heavily to his side. His brow is furrowed attractively, lips stuck out in a pout that looks good enough to eat. He angrily passes his fingers through his hair, shakes it free of the gel, and unbuttons the buttons at his collar. He looks genuinely frustrated.

"I didn't want to come tonight," Eames admits in a soft, distant voice. Arthur's internal bullshit detector test pings in the positive.

"Great. Well, sorry for wasting your evening." Arthur nods crisply, turns to head back to his place, thinks about picking up somebody at the bar across from his apartment and fucking them to work out the monstrous sexual frustration and disappointment that's currently bogging him down.

Eames keeps talking.

"But I did."

Arthur spits out a harsh laugh. "You want a medal for _enduring_ my presence or something?"

"Oh piss off," Eames snaps, just as angrily. "It isn't like that."

Arthur doesn't want an explanation. Eames crowds him against a wall—boldly, determined.

"Cards out? I want to fuck you, darling. Quite adamantly." His voice is hot, eyes hard and serious. "I don't make dates with the bits I plan on shagging. I don't enjoy dressing up like a giant ponce to secure a bit of arse I could have had without any effort whatsoever." He clears his throat, cheeks visibly red at the top. "Yet for some reason, I spent the last two days thinking about all the clever little stories and charming anecdotes I'd tell you tonight to get into your bed."

Sensing that Arthur won't punch, Eames steps closer, their chests barely an inch apart.

"And I had to come, because I've spent two days thinking about you."

Despite himself, Arthur's weirdly flattered—would probably feel some sort of indignation if he hadn't spent the last two nights with his hand around his dick, biting his pillow in the hopes Eames's cock is as thick as he thinks it is.

"And if I'd've known you'd come tonight looking like this..." Eames's voice trails off, eyes glassy.

Arthur's already made up his mind.

"I'm not hungry anymore."

The smile Eames gives him is blinding.

"I never was."

\--

The door against Arthur's back is the only thing keeping him upright.

Eames's mouth attacks his, leaves him gasping for breath. His lips are wet with spit, sore from the roughness of Eames's kisses, from how adamantly he's responding in kind. He can't stop sucking at Eames's tongue, at his fat bottom lip. Every kiss is followed by a lewd suck that makes Arthur's dick twitch enthusiastically.

Arthur can't believe how good Eames feels against him.

Eames runs his hands across Arthur's back, yanks him closer by the fabric of his too tight shirt, ruts against him helplessly. Arthur clings to his hair, pulls their mouths together, swallows and sucks and _wants_ with everything he has in him. He's burning up, is hot all over. His dick hasn't been this hard since his first blowjob.

He can feel how rigid Eames is with every quick, hard snap of his pelvis. Arthur slings his bad knee over Eames's hip, drags everything in closer until their dicks are perfectly aligned, the friction unbelievably good. Eames rips their mouths apart, growls low and throaty, has Arthur leaking everywhere in his underwear. He needs to get his pants off—needs to get Eames naked. He feels suffocated, like his clothing is strangling him.

He might say something to that degree, because the next thing he registers is the pressure of Eames's fingers coiling around his throat, pinning his head against the door with an iron grip. Arthur can't move an inch. Eames smirks, pleased with his compliance before he goes right back to nipping his lips, sucking the air from his lungs.

"Christ, you look incredible," he growls.

Arthur claws at Eames's head—his hair—slams their mouths together. It's sloppy and raw and stinging, but Arthur doesn't want it to end. The contact alone is incredible, the intensity of Eames's want—his want—enough to keep him grinding his cock against Eames's muscular stomach, his thick thigh. He almost goes blind when Eames tightens his fingers against his throat, uses his other hand to pop the button of Arthur's fly, drag his zipper down.

Eames's hand slides into his pants, his underwear, and wraps around the burning ache between his legs. Arthur squeezes—ruts mindlessly. He's losing oxygen. His skin burns, his heart throbs. He's going to come any second now, especially if Eames keeps touching him, keeps stroking him up and down, his dick already so, so wet. When Eames thumbs the slit of his cock, Arthur's eyes roll.

"You're fucking gorgeous," Eames pants, pulls off Arthur's dick and makes him _whine_. Eames nips along his jaw, catches Arthur's flailing right hand and yanks it toward his exposed cock—urges him to jerk off, show off. Arthur strokes himself savagely, twitches and struggles for a better grip, for more contact with Eames's skin.

Eames unbuttons Arthur's shirt, starts with the bottom button and works his way up. His nails scratch Arthur's sweating, tensing stomach along the way. Arthur wants to feel Eames in his hands, keeps brushing against his heavy cock still trapped in his pants with his knuckles.

With the last button delicately pulled apart, Eames ducks down, _bites_ Arthur's neck. The pain is blindingly sharp. Arthur comes instantly, splashes all up his chest and against Eames's shirt, feels it slide through his fingers. His entire body shivers, tingles with the awesome force of a fantastic orgasm.

He pants into Eames's hair—mouth open—tastes the bitter, citrusy residue of his hair gel. Eames isn't moving now, is statue still like he's paralyzed.

"Bloody hell," he mutters, no longer sounds even remotely turned on—actually sounds mildly horrified.

Arthur immediately sobers, his orgasm high fleeing like a spooked animal.

Eames is looking at his chest.

At his scars.

"What—" Eames stumbles over the word clumsily, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"It's nothing," Arthur pants, tries to yank his shirt in place to cover the wound. Eames has a firm grip on the material—can't tear his eyes away.

Arthur feels the night slipping away. He's got his keys in his hand, is trying to fit it in the lock without looking, goes to kiss Eames to bring him back.

Eames won't budge—swallows heavily.

He slowly lifts his hand, skims across the heaviest area of scar tissue with ticklish fingers.

Arthur flinches.

Eames takes off.

\--

Arthur shuts the door behind him.

He's got come slicking his hands, his belly—his dick still half hard in his drenched underwear. His shirt is wrinkled beyond the repair of any iron known to mankind, and his pants are bunching uncomfortably around his ass. His hair is a wreck, his lips raw and tender, bright red in the light.

He's completely alone.

He has no idea what the fuck just happened.

\--

The rest of his weekend is awful.

\--

Arthur's meeting with Saito rolls around quicker than he would have liked.

He arrives at the front entrance at the exact time Saito does. They chat briefly about Arthur's first week in Paris before they make it to the surveillance room on the top floor. There are blueprints of the museum laid out on a metal table, heavy books on each end keeping them from curling. Security monitors cover an entire wall, each exhibit monitored by two cameras that rotate 360 degrees. It takes eight seconds to get a full sweep of the room. 

Around three, Saito ushers Arthur into his town car and takes him to Le Meurice for a late lunch. The restaurant looks like the inside of a castle, all bone white with massive crystal chandeliers and heavily draped windows that overlook the Tuileries Gardens. Upon seeing the dining clientele, Arthur's immensely glad he wore a full suit and tie today, despite how badly he wants to ditch the jacket and roll up his sleeves.

Their waitress is a beautiful blonde woman with soft, doe eyes. She hands them menus and fills their wine glasses without having to be asked.

When she leaves, Saito begins to talk.

"I have reason to believe somebody is going to steal from me very soon."

Arthur raises an eyebrow. "What makes you say that?"

"Because it has happened many times before." He takes a sip of his wine, swirls his glass with flourish. "Before I hired you, my art was the target of three break-ins at the Louvre. Two people, the same all three times. As you can imagine, they were unsuccessful."

"Security ran them down hard, did they?" Arthur smirks at the thought of the Cobbs scrambling, panicked and hunted. "Which piece were they going after?"

"All of them," Saito says nonchalantly. "But I only discovered this when I had my collection divided. I placed my art in the hands of fifteen of the most renowned museums across the globe: England, Brazil, Italy, Egypt, America," he lists on his long fingers. "Can you tell me which of my fifteen pieces of art are still in my possession?"

Arthur's scar aches. He rubs at it. Saito nods his head.

"Precisely. And now it is back at the Louvre and I have taken great lengths to acquire the one element that has impeded the thieves."

"Me," Arthur states flatly. Saito nods again, smile deepening. He looks younger, somehow more menacing.

The waitress comes back to refill their wine glasses, gives Saito a coy look under her long eyelashes. Her shirt's unbuttoned an extra button. Arthur notices. So does Saito.

When she walks away, Saito waits exactly two more swallow of wine before he gets up, excuses himself from the table.

Arthur's seen more subtlety in six year olds trying to sneak extra cookies after dinner.

\--

Arthur's first day starts with him buttoned up and stiff, ends with his shirt untucked, sleeves rolled and tie hanging off the back of a chair.

His team consists of ten men, all ex-military like himself. It gives them something to bond over.

They’re all at the top of their field, respect authority and follow orders without backtalk or grumbling. Arthur only knows what the Army taught him about surveillance, is familiar with police protocols and unit structure. His team teaches him the basic ins and outs of building surveillance and he picks up the rest by watching them. It's a learning curve that nobody uses against him.

When he leaves at nine, he feels like he's beginning to accomplish something pretty substantial.

He buys a good bottle of red wine—can't bother finding a knife, and splits the seal with his nail when he gets home. He drinks straight from the bottle, eats the last of his bread with a handful of icy cold grapes. It's hot outside where Arthur sits, the air muggy with an oncoming storm.

His scar itches under his shirt, the bite along his throat stings.

He's going to punch Eames in the dick if he ever sees him again.

\--

Arthur's favorite market has all its fresh produce delivered on Sunday afternoon. He makes a point to trek out once a week, stock up on all his vegetables and fish, buys a new pack of cigarettes from the elderly lady that has hand-rolled her own brand of tobacco for thirty-seven years.

Even though it's summer, mornings in Paris are noticeably cooler—practically glacial for a man born and raised in the persistent heat of California. He had to buy a souvenir scarf after one too many mornings of walking to work with chattering teeth.

Arthur winds the wooly fabric around his throat, lights the last cigarette from his old pack. He can already smell the freshly baked pastries across the Seine—suddenly craves a cheese and basil tart, maybe a couple of pumpkin scones. His favorite bakery is right around the corner.

He's just about to enter the bakery when a flash of white and black catches the corner of his eye.

After weeks of futilely searching, he finds Eames.

\--

Eames is sitting on a wooden stool, suspenders pooled at his hips, the strap of his caramel satchel tangled around his ankle. His back is hunched, elbows on his knees—exhausted. Arthur's impressed at how small Eames is able to make himself—only got a small taste of how much power lurks within him.

Arthur hates himself for still wanting to find out how much more there is.

Eames's eyes are closed as he wipes away white makeup from his cheeks with a blue handkerchief. Half his face is still painted white and black, his lips still stained red from the heavy lipstick he'd been wearing. Arthur does his best not to stare at Eames's mouth, walks right up to him, keeps his voice even.

"Am I too late for the show?"

Eames's head snaps up. The look he gives Arthur is comical—eyes wide and shocked, like he's been trapped.

"I ask, only because I missed the ending last time on account of being unconscious."

Eames sighs theatrically, continues wiping away the makeup. "Leave it, Arthur."

"That's really rich coming from you," Arthur snipes, crushes his cigarette under the heel of his shoe before he does something stupid like hit Eames's stupidly beautiful mouth.

"Would you like me to apologize, is that it?" Eames sounds just as tired as he looks. If it weren't for the heat in his eyes, Arthur would have left, would have probably kept his vindictive promise to himself and punched Eames right in the dick. "At least _you_ managed to cop off. You're welcome for that, by the way."

" _You_ were the one that left," Arthur reminds him, hackles rising.

"Well I wasn't expecting to find half your bloody chest carved out, now was I?" Eames sounds angry, like this entire situation is Arthur's fault.

"I told you what happened to me," Arthur hisses, lips curled into a snarl.

"How was I to know you meant it _literally_?" Eames snaps, gall rising. Half his face is still covered in heavy white makeup, the black designs around his eye makes him look like he's winking. "Are you even medically capable of physical exertion?"

Arthur snorts. "What, you want a doctor's note saying it's ok to fuck me? If a bullet couldn't finish the job, I seriously doubt your dick will."

Eames shoves his gloves and beret into his satchel. Arthur can hear glass bottles clink against each other. "Bloody typical, you—"

"Listen," Arthur says curtly, cuts Eames off. "Whatever noble sacrifice you thought you were making or are still making is total bullshit, ok? I was shot. And I technically died. I got better. End of my sob story. I don't need some guy I just met giving me medical advice on the proper way to get my dick sucked."

Arthur can see the anger drain from Eames's body, sees his muscles unclenching. He looks slightly lost, cracked open just enough for Arthur to glimpse at the worry he's bottled up.

"It's not—" Eames begins, scrubs his hands through his hair. "When I saw your," he waves vaguely at Arthur's chest, "I didn't want to exacerbate the situation any more than I might have already." Eames's voice bleeds with sincerity—with regret.

Just like that, the mood is broken, anger replaced with quiet embarrassment.

Arthur gently curls his fingers on Eames's shoulder—grabs hold of his striped shirt—a gentle pressure to keep him in place. He deliberately lightens his voice, makes sure Eames is aware with his body and words that he isn't letting him run off this time.

"I'm sorry," Eames softly apologizes after a long silence.

"What for? You're not the one who shot me."

Eames looks relieved and frustrated. "Then for how our night ended."

"You still owe me dinner," Arthur reminds him.

Eames laughs, unexpected and bright. His reaction visibly shocks himself, his eyes wide and grey and staggering. He turns the painted side of his face to Arthur, looks away. All Arthur can stare at is how full and red his lips look, remembers instantly what they felt like along his jaw, how he burned under skin for more.

Eames moves closer, their chests touching. Arthur goes from freezing cold to sweltering; the heat Eames emits is astronomical.

"Now that that's all settled, this is what's going to happen," Arthur states calmly. "I'm going back to my place and you're going to follow. I'm going to forget that you left me at my doorstep with my dick in my hand and you're not going to treat me like I'm going to break. Then you're going to fuck me, Eames. And you're going to make it good. So good that I won't kick you out of bed after I'm too spent for another round. Is that clear?"

Eames gawks, jaw slightly open. He looks lost, aroused, and desperate. Conflicted. Arthur starts to walk away, shifts the weight of his grocery bag. When he turns to look back, Eames hasn't moved an inch.

"Well? Are you coming or not?"

Eames snaps out of his daze instantly, scrambles after him.


	3. ça dure toujours on s'en souvient

 

Their first time is hands down the worst sex Arthur's ever had.

They're both too hot for it, end up fumbling worse than virgins. Eames's cock monstrously thick, Arthur's ass unbearably tight. No matter how many fingers Eames slides into Arthur, he can't relax, wants Eames inside him too badly, clamps around him with vicious pressure.

He ignores the pain, snaps at Eames to hurry up and get on with it.

The first thrust hurts worse than getting shot.

Arthur doesn't even have to push Eames off. He pulls out with a yelp and a comic scramble—cups his dick—shields it. His face, ashen. Arthur drops onto his pillows, pants and winces.

"Perhaps that wasn't the smartest of ideas," Eames manages after they've both caught their breath.

Arthur rolls away from Eames's body, pouts, eyebrows furrowed in displeasure. He's incredibly frustrated. He finally has Eames naked and in his bed—his cock rock hard and aching for release—and it's not _working_.

Eames chuckles fondly. Arthur feels the bed shift as Eames climbs on top of him, his heavy hands gentle on Arthur's hips—forces him flat on his back. Arthur opens his eyes and sees Eames's warm smile, his eyes sleepy with arousal. Arthur can't stand the look on his face a moment longer, grabs him by the back of his neck and pulls him down for a kiss, spreads his legs a little to accommodate Eames's knees.

Eames's mouth really is glorious, lips plush and giving, his tongue wicked. Arthur's never been a fan of kissing while fucking—how it throws off the rhythm—but Eames moves with him instinctively. He wraps his arm under Arthur's neck to bring them closer. The effects are dizzying. Arthur thrashes, his dick oozes on his stomach.

The lube cap snaps open near Arthur's ear.

He winces just a little when Eames's slick fingers rub around his hot, sore rim. Eames mutters an apology, maneuvers Arthur's bad leg with his free hand, drops it across his shoulders to relieve the uncomfortable pressure, and leans down, gets Arthur exposed. His fingers slip inside easily, the pace slower than before. Eames's fingers stretch him sharply—cruel. Arthur needs it. Eames distracts him magnificently with kisses, his tongue.

Arthur feels so good.

Eames's fingers occasionally rub across his prostate, make him moan. Eames's forehead is dotted with perspiration, face steady in concentration. Arthur can't stop panting. His body is barely registering the uncomfortable stretch anymore, filled with electricity that's crackling to escape.

"Christ," Eames swears, shakes his head. Sweat hits Arthur's chest, his neck. Eames pulls his fingers out and Arthur's foggy brain only registers the emptiness.

He's about to whine, but then Eames is back over him, kisses him hard before he easily lifts Arthur's hips, positions him further up the bed and licks away the puddle of precome low on his belly, squeezes Arthur's cock with his strong fingers. Arthur's vision explodes.

He's beyond ready now—wiggles to roll onto his hands and knees—body gloriously boxed in by Eames's muscles, his chest. He feels the heft of Eames's cock thump against his asshole, goes hot all over.

"Fuck," he pants, shudders when Eames grabs hold of his hips, holds up his right leg so his bad knee barely touches the mattress, tips him slightly downward to fix the angle.

"Grab the bed, Arthur." Eames shushes desperately—Arthur has no idea he's even making noise—rubs his heavy palm up the bumps in Arthur's slick spine.

It takes three firm pushes to get Eames in to the hilt. Arthur's back bows under the pressure, his eyes roll back. He's being flayed alive. Eames's cock is so goddamn thick. Each hard push inside rides Arthur's ass relentlessly—nails his prostate. Arthur squeezes around him helplessly, his cock so wet it drenches his hand. Eames murmurs encouragingly when Arthur's jerks speed up, his orgasm coiling adamantly in his belly.

It only lasts a few minutes, but Arthur has no idea how he holds out as long as he does, bucks furiously on Eames as his orgasm crashes through him. Eames helps milk him through it, grunts and bites down hard on Arthur's shoulder when his ass becomes too tight to enjoy.

When Eames's nails dig into the scar on his chest, Arthur swears he manages to come again.

The second Eames takes his hands off Arthur, he collapses on the bed, swallows as much air as he possibly can with deep, heavy gasps. Eames hisses as he withdraws, bites his fat bottom lip as he carefully peels the condom off his flushed, glossy dick.

Arthur curls in on himself a little—body gone cold all over, tries to get his bearings after that world-class fucking.

His hole is burning raw, painfully stretched. He feels how open he is, suddenly can't stop fingering himself—feels the friction heat of the fucking Eames just pounded into him, the greasy slide of the cheap lube. Eames growls—possessive—nudges away Arthur's fingers and replaces them with his own, keeps up a gentle, circular motion until Arthur's grinds back on his hand, until Eames tears off another condom—hisses as it slides down his mostly hard dick—and pushes into Arthur just once, goes all the way in, snug.

The sex is sloppy, hurts, is heavenly. Arthur claws at the sheets, grinds until his back cramps. His lungs burn. He can't get Eames deep enough.

\--

Arthur wakes with a firm, solid arm around his stomach.

His senses float back to him gradually, body exhausted—unbearably hot. He tries to squirm away from the stifling heat at his back only to have the arm tighten, draw him back easily.

It's only then does Arthur become aware of the solid pressure in his ass, the flaking, dried come all up his stomach and the inside of his thighs.

Eames's cock is snug and deep inside him, the condom wrinkling at the base. Arthur has to bite down hard on his lip to keep quiet as he slides Eames out of him. His ass clenches unhappily—his brain replaying every breathtakingly perfect thrust and slam, how Eames had worn him down and kept him open for more. Every nerve in his body wants to crawl on top of Eames's slumbering body, to see how far he can cram Eames's cock back inside before he wakes.

But he's beyond disgusting—feels tacky and itchy—uncomfortable. When he sits up, he finds a used condom stuck to the back of his thigh. Arthur peels it off his leg hair and winces.

He needs a shower more than he anticipated.

\--

His legs shake all the way to the bathroom.

He can barely support himself as he lets warm water wash away the worst of the come and sweat, scrubs himself quickly with soap and shampoo. He can't believe how sore he is, how relaxed he is—pleased. He digs his blunt nails into a bite mark on his stomach, moans low and needy. He can't stand it anymore—lifts his leg just enough to let his fingers rub at his throbbing hole.

He smiles the whole time.

Eames is sitting up when he gets back. He looks conflicted. Gorgeous. The sheets are pooled at his waist, Arthur pushes them away, wants Eames naked for his greedy eyes. Eames looks up at Arthur. His expression is painfully innocent, as if he didn't spend the night before making Arthur see God through his cock.

Arthur drops down in the warm spot beside Eames, eyes the dark swirls of ink of the classic Chinese dragon tattoo curled around Eames's left arm. It goes all the way up to his shoulder. Arthur wants to bite it all.

"I think I'm sitting on a rubber," Eames says distantly, furrows his eyebrows. His lips dry and slightly chapped.

Arthur spies four ripped condom wrappers on the floor. Jesus.

"Probably," he laughs.

Eames looks on breathlessly. He reaches for Arthur’s face, thumbs at his dimples. Arthur smiles wider—deepens the divots, kisses the pad of Eames's thumb. He could get used to Eames's big hands, his strong body. Eames looks at him in awe, all traces of apprehension smoothed down by the smoky look of lust and hunger darkening his face.

It's only 7pm—the sun still shines outside. Eames's stomach rumbles loudly.

"Dinner?" Arthur reminds him again—a joke at this point.

Eames smiles—works away the knot holding Arthur's towel together. His eyes lower at Arthur's nakedness, his fingers clamp Arthur's thighs reflexively. Arthur can't help it, gets hard from the intensity of Eames's stare.

"In a minute," Eames mutters, licks his lips.

He rolls Arthur onto the bed, holds both his wrists tightly with both his hands. Arthur sees what's coming, but still chokes out a scream when Eames's mouth swallows him down to the root.

\--

They end up a block away sharing an enormous herb and brie omelet.

Eames makes a disgusted face when Arthur squeezes ketchup onto his portion, but it doesn't stop him from chasing after Arthur's mouth the entire meal for sloppy kisses. Eames's lips are a little swollen, still raw and red. Arthur isn't strong enough to look away.

Their chairs are as close as can be, Eames's arm thrown casually around Arthur's shoulders, fingers playing with the ends of his hair. Arthur drinks more of Eames's coffee than he does. They share a fork after Eames accidentally knocks Arthur's to the floor. Their heads are ducked close as Eames translates all the random chitchat occurring around them.

They can't stop kissing.

\--

Eames stays overnight. Arthur's body can't handle another round, but so help him, he wants to try.

They end up on fresh sheets, curled together as Eames flips through TV channels. They settle on _The Pink Panther_ dubbed in French.

Neither pays attention to the movie.

Eames tells him about growing up in England—his family apparently old, old money—about how the Lord and Lady Eames disapproved of their only child going to drama school instead of heading off to Cambridge and studying psychology or economics—some boring subject that could lead a pointless dinner party conversation. He tells Arthur how he hated being expected to rely on his parent's fortune, yet was always at their financial mercy, that he rejected his trust fund when he was twenty-one and joined a performance troupe where he met his longtime roommate and best friend, Robert Fischer, another runaway rich boy with daddy issues who now works as a fucking _runway model_ for Prada.

When Arthur points out how miming might not be the most financially profitable occupation, Eames corrects him, says he's _acting_.

Arthur's charmed.

In turn, Arthur tells Eames about growing up in California, about knowing from a young age he wanted to protect the people he loved—how that lead to him enlisting in the Army at eighteen and making it all the way to Lieutenant before both his parents died in a car crash while he was stationed in Afghanistan. He tells Eames about joining the LAPD when he was lost and confused and desperate, how he stuck with it for five, miserable years until he stumbled upon a series of high-end art thefts and the two suspects at the center of each one.

He tells Eames about dying. About all the surgeries and physio, the pain. The restart Saito hand delivered him.

Eames listens raptly, runs his fingers along Arthur's scars—doesn't stop until Arthur's voice is dry and cracks.

\--

Arthur wakes early Monday morning to the sound of rain hitting his windows. The TV is on low. The picture next to the weatherwoman announces the rain will end by the afternoon.

Eames is asleep at his back, snores quietly.

Arthur's warm and cozy, drowsy and a little sleepy. Eames tightens his arm against Arthur's stomach.

He drops off again without even realizing it.

\--

It goes on like this for a week, two weeks—one month, two.

\--

Arthur needs a new word to describe what he does now with Eames from what he used to do with random strangers. Arthur's fucked people, he's had sex with people. On a rare, rare occasion, he's even made love to people. But what he does with Eames is _more_.

Eames leaves him devastated—makes him feel new—remade—with every kiss, every touch. He experiences a rush of unfiltered power when he can bring beautiful, brilliant Eames to his knees with one look, how Eames's mouth will part and eyes will soften in awe whenever Arthur curls up to him, how he actively craves the discomfort in his knee after a thorough round of fucking.

He imagines addicts feel this kind of desperation, then joy—bliss surging through their systems once they've been sated.

"I've never been with someone who wants my cock as desperately as you," Eames says one night, chest and face sheened with sweat.

"Then you haven't had anyone properly appreciate your cock before," Arthur mumbles in reply, stomach quivering from the intensity of his orgasm. He's just been fucked beyond recognition—is truly surprised he can form words when none of his senses work properly. He fights the urge to curl into a ball, to slide his fingers into himself and feel the raw, hot burn Eames fucked deep inside.

Eames huffs, curls around Arthur's sweat tacky back even though he _knows_ Arthur hates it, and pushes the tender head of his cock back inside for Arthur to clench around. Arthur moans into his spit damp pillow, bites until he can taste the feathers.

"Not like you, pet," Eames purrs roughly, yanks Arthur fully onto his dick like Arthur weighs nothing.

He lets Arthur work himself into a lazy rhythm on his dick, has to keep jostling Arthur into jerking himself for Eames's viewing pleasure. Arthur pulls another brutal orgasm out of his dick. Eames digs his nails into the scar tissue on his chest the entire time, bites the side of his neck until Arthur's skin feels swollen and tight. It has to be painful for Eames, Arthur squeezing him in so firmly, but he rides it out with a few sharp pumps that milk the last few spurts of come out of Arthur's dick better than his own fist ever could.

"Fuck," Arthur pants, always far too sensitive now for Eames to be touching. Eames has already pulled out, peels off the condom with careful grace. Usually, Arthur would leave for the shower and let the water wash away the worst of the stink, but right now, all he wants to do is lick away the come coating Eames's hard, swollen cock—wants to feel Eames's thighs clamp around his ears as he rides his throat.

He realizes, right then and there—sweaty and sore, fucked half out of his mind—that he's completely infatuated with Eames.

He's surprisingly ok with that.

\--

Professionally, Arthur's never had it better.

His job is incredible, affords him opportunities to meet artists and politicians, dignitaries and the heads of the biggest corporations in the world, royalty and celebrities. Saito keeps him close when he has business retreats, whenever he plans fundraisers and art galas. So far, Arthur's had four CEOs and a Prime Minister try to steal him away, Saito calmly chuckling at their audacity.

The money is better in every new offer, but Arthur politely rejects every request. He's more than fulfilled where he is.

Arthur genuinely cares about the people he works with. He can call them friends without having to worry about them respecting his authority after they pour into a cab, drunk and rowdy—every pint or shot or drink strengthening their working relationships. Arthur has lunch with them almost every day. It's different from the lunches he used to have with his old police colleagues, where Arthur never felt completely comfortable around them, could never join in their bitching and complaining about their wives or girlfriends.

Everyone has already met Eames, has gone drinking with him half a dozen times—actually seem to get along better with him even with his stubborn English patriotism. They call Arthur onto the museum floor whenever Eames stops by for a surprise lunch date, will walkie him to hurry up at the end of his shift, whenever Eames waits more than five minutes for Arthur to leave his office.

It's pleasant.

It's second nature now: Arthur will shuck on his coat and scarf at the end of his shift, will find Marc or Guillaume outside smoking with Eames—still in his face paint and costume. Their conversations will be a mangled French and English hybrid, but everyone will be laughing. When Eames sees Arthur, he'll sling an arm around his waist and they'll walk the ten minutes to Arthur's apartment, they'll eat whatever they can throw into a pan and stir-fry, and will spend the rest of the night lazily trading kisses or back rubs, might fall asleep at ten or fuck until three.

It's so domestic it's laughable.

\--

In late August, Arthur comes down with a stomach parasite that decimates him. He spends a week hunched over his toilet puking up everything except his internal organs.

The first day is spent in absolute misery. He's hot and sticky, his stomach aches like he's being clawed open from the inside. He's too dizzy to eat or drink even though he needs fluids. He stumbles three steps to his kitchen before he has to turn back in a hurry, spills out bile that burns his throat and tongue.

He thinks he actually manages an hour of sleep on his toilet seat before his stomach kicks and he dry-heaves until his guts ache.

Arthur jerks awake when blissfully chilled hands cup his forehead.

"Oh, pet, what have you done to yourself?"

"Eames?" Arthur's mouth is sticky, tastes like rotting acid, like sickness. His abdomen clenches, he lurches forward and coughs up three pitiful mouthfuls of vomit.

Arthur hears the tap running, groans when a wet washcloth is placed against his burning neck, when Eames's solid, cold fingers comb through his oily hair, brushing it away from his sweat tacky forehead. Water drips down his spine, over his shoulders. It feels amazing.

"You're burning up, Arthur," Eames informs grimly, runs the tap again and rewets the cloth. Arthur shivers in relief. Eames tuts under his breath, leaves the bathroom with a quick kiss to Arthur's damp temple. When he returns, he's got a freezing bottle of water that he tips into Arthur's mouth slowly, lets him swallow and rinse, keeps encouraging more down his sore esophagus by gently rubbing his throat.

"Up you go," Eames heaves him by his armpits, has him balance on his sink with weak arms while he strips off his jacket and shirt, kicks off his ripped jeans. Arthur's vision goes blurry, his knees buckle. Eames is behind him, all his glorious skin pressing up against Arthur's overheated back.

He's ushered into his cramped shower, the water turned on the coldest setting. The first icy blast makes him jump but Eames keeps him standing with his burly arms. The water feels incredible. Eames shivers miserably behind him, noses behind Arthur's ear and kisses the wing of his shoulder, mutters soft encouragement through chattering teeth.

When the water begins to feel warm against Arthur's skin, Eames turns off the shower, has Arthur wrapped in one of his fluffy towels in the same breath. He's so tired, suddenly, keeps dropping into unconsciousness. He's on his bed before he realizes he even left the bathroom. Eames uncaps another bottle of water, places it to Arthur's cracked lips.

"Drink for me, yeah? You need to stay hydrated."

Arthur manages two sips before he coughs. Eames has his hand around the back of his neck, the garbage can lifted close enough to Arthur's face to catch anything he throws up. When nothing follows, Eames lowers it to the floor, rubs Arthur's spine in long, smooth strokes that feel wonderful.

\--

"You're going to get sick," Arthur whines, tries to push Eames away from him.

It's been two days and Eames has left Arthur's side only once to run to the market. He came back with three dozen bottles of Gatorade and two loaves of bread he claimed were given to him free of charge when he mentioned Arthur needed them because he was ill.

"I'll be fine," Eames says confidently, chews on the end pieces of bread because Arthur still hates them more than his stomach flu. He's snuggled up to Arthur's back, crammed sideways on his small couch. Crumbs fall on Arthur's neck and he stubbornly brushes them away, sucks down a hard sip of fruit punch flavored Gatorade.

How Eames guessed it was his favorite, he'll never know.

They watch movies with French subtitles, all comedies from the 1960s. It hurts to laugh, so Eames does it for the both of them, his arm a solid, unmovable band across Arthur's stomach. Arthur's resigned to Eames coddling him, keeping him close. The contact is grounding, makes Arthur feel less miserable about upchucking every other hour. No matter how disgusting he looks or smells, Eames's expression is the same blend of patient and fond.

He sneaks wet, pouty kisses against Arthur's neck and keeps insisting a handjob will make him feel better. After a week, Eames's voice starts to have the same effect on Arthur's libido that his dick usually has. It fucks with Arthur's sanity, being ill and constantly aroused when Eames asks him if he wants trivial things like tissue or aspirin—a limbo state where he's miserable yet overjoyed at being so adored.

By Friday, Arthur's tired of fighting his urges, lets Eames slip his rough, incredible hands into his flannel pajama bottoms and strokes him through one of the most intense orgasms he's ever had. He's completely wrecked after, Eames still petting his dick, still wetly kissing his favorite spot behind Arthur's right ear.

For the first time, in a week—in his life—Arthur feels comfortably empty. Every kiss and touch and heavy pant from Eames fills him up until he's packed too tight, is ready to burst. He struggles to roll in Eames's firm grasp, kisses him with his fruit punch flavored mouth until his lips go numb, until the night falls and he curls up on Eames's broad chest and falls into a dreamless, restful sleep.

\--

As expected, Eames gets sick not even a day after Arthur feels sturdy enough to eat a full meal.

Arthur takes another week off work, has Eames wrapped up in blankets and his arms. He's a better patient than Arthur, but not by much. He keeps making sad, miserable faces that Arthur wants to kiss away but doesn't dare.

"If you wanted to be the little spoon, you could have just asked," Arthur tells Eames one night when his fever is so high Arthur's skin burns where it touches Eames.

Eames laughs and throws up on Arthur's hand.

It's absolutely disgusting, but Arthur's never been happier.

\--

Eames is making microwavable popcorn in Arthur's kitchen, humming something tunelessly as Arthur reads an article from TIME on his iPhone.

 _The Fly_ is playing in non-subtitled English and Arthur has no idea how the Greek financial crisis, Jeff Goldblum transforming into a monster, the smell of over-buttered popcorn, and Eames's inability to hold a tune all combine to remind him they haven't had sex in fifteen days.

Eames drops heavily beside him, the popcorn steaming from its badly ripped bag, Eames too lazy to grab a bowl from Arthur's cabinet. Eames shoves a handful of popcorn in his mouth. His fingers gleam with butter that he sucks off noisily, catches Arthur's gaze and winks.

Arthur swallows. They haven't been fucking, but they've been sharing Arthur's bed every night, have eaten almost every meal together for the past two months. He has no idea how he never realized it before and then feels so very, very stupid.

Arthur knows every spot on Eames's body that gets him hot, knows how he likes to be sucked and teased—that he goes wild when Arthur plays with his nipples and sucks on his lips—how he's surprisingly sappy after he's come, wants to cuddle and spoon, kiss Arthur's neck and behind his right ear, will lazily pet the pink scars on his chest. He knows Eames is attentive, takes whatever new information he squeezes out of Arthur and applies it mercilessly to the next round. Arthur learns Eames likes contact after sex—has stopped complaining whenever Eames curls up behind him and nuzzles at his neck hair, that he can fall asleep anywhere in any position—no matter how uncomfortable—so long as he has something in his arms.

Beyond that, he knows Eames's favorite band and movie and color, about his soft-spot for puppies but not dogs; that he's allergic to parsley; about his inability to place his dirty mugs in the sink, how he could eat asparagus for every meal and will only eat celery if there's peanut butter on it, that he hates socks and shoes and will pad around barefoot as often as he can.

Arthur knows all this the way he knows Eames is going to start shifting the both of them until they're laying across Arthur's tiny couch, only so he can get at Arthur's neck and play with his hair.

It's been almost seven months since he's been in Paris, six of those have been with Eames. It's not just hookups and sex—about getting off whenever they're both in the mood. They're actually in a _relationship_.

"What's with the face, pet?" Eames nudges Arthur's side with his knobby elbow. His mouth is glossy with butter residue. Arthur can't help himself—leans in for a taste.

"Nothing," he says with a smile, settles into Eames's side. "I like this movie."

Eames grunts in agreement, shifts his bare feet up on the couch and tucks them under Arthur's thigh, keeps burrowing until Arthur's lying completely atop Eames, both of them curled together watching the credits roll by, Eames happily sucking a hickie behind Arthur's right ear.

Arthur laughs, smugly pleased with himself. He's in a stable relationship that looks long-term with someone incredible—someone gorgeous—who makes him feel alive—awake.

He's so fucking happy he's actually jealous of himself.

\--

They've fucked against every surface in the apartment that'll support their weight, some that haven't.

Eames is a fixture there now the way Arthur's fridge and couch are. There are days when Arthur will leave for work and return to find Eames in the same spot he left him in, curled under Arthur's light duvet. Eames helps him tidy on the weekends, buys foods whenever Arthur has no time. He's had the entrance code to the courtyard for as long as they've been seeing each other, the neighbors now refer to them collectively, never individually.

Arthur enjoys having Eames in the apartment—never feels claustrophobic or stifled. Eames has a way of owning spaces but leaves a wide opening for Arthur to slot into.

One morning, Arthur wakes to a foot of water on his floor, a pipe bursting in the night. The landlord tells him it'll take four weeks to fix. Eames looks delighted, already has a bag he's packed tight with every bit of clothing Arthur owns, tells Arthur he'll just have to stay with him while everything is being sorted.

It's almost the same when they're at Eames's apartment.

Almost, but not quite.

Probably would be, if it weren't for Fischer.

\--

Fischer does not like Arthur.

Where Eames opens all the spaces in his apartment for Arthur to curl into, Fischer storms through with barricades and chains—makes sure Arthur always feels like he's intruding, like he doesn't belong. They snap at each other like wet, feral cats, vie for Eames's attention like quarreling siblings.

Eames seems mostly amused to be the object of their bickering, but will always be the first to snap at Fischer when he's being a rude little shit, will shush Arthur with a gentle peck on the cheek when his hackles are up.

He hears Eames talking to Fischer, imploring him to play nice. Fischer tells him he'll play nice in twenty-three days. When the repairs to Arthur's apartment are scheduled to be completed.

Arthur makes sure he's extra loud that night, rides Eames so violently the bed slams against the wall, keeps everyone in the apartment complex up until dawn.

\--

After two weeks of staying at Eames's apartment, Arthur understands why Fischer is so territorial.

Eames is all Fischer really has in the world—is his only genuine friend. Arthur met some of the models Fischer spends time with—all of them catty and cruel. They suck up to Fischer because designers use him and are dumb enough to think their sycophantic, fake friendliness will advance their careers.

They all assume Arthur's a new model who's fucking Eames to get to Fischer and encroach on their territory. They treat Arthur like a leper, openly discuss and laugh at the imperfections of his face and body as if he wasn't in the room. Arthur would actually feel self-conscious if it weren't for Eames's arm around his waist, the way he snorts at every potshot taken at Arthur's body. It must kill them—Arthur realizes—that they can't say shit about Fischer—how he's probably the closest to male physical perfection that'll ever exist.

After that night, Arthur feels sorry for Fischer. He remembers feeling that ostracism, that awful feeling of not belonging. That all changed for Arthur when he got shot, moved to Paris—met Eames. Except Fischer has Eames in his life and is still miserable.

Arthur can't even imagine that kind of loneliness.

He makes a conscious effort to give Fischer and Eames enough time together, never asks to join in, always turns down the invitations Eames issues. Fischer seems grateful enough, his shoulders loosening. Arthur spends those nights alone in Eames's bed—misses Eames's company—but figures it's easier to bribe Fischer into accepting him if he shows a little give.

\--

Arthur overhears a lot of Fischer and Eames's conversations.

Most are mundane and short—has Fischer seen his beret, what did Eames do with the leftover pasta—but some are packed with careless information that Arthur covets like jewels. Fischer talks about work often, about upcoming shows and designers and photographers that chase after him. It's a little like living with a celebrity: in the world of fashion, Fischer is a certified star.

At least three nights a week, Fischer attends parties thrown by some of the biggest fashion houses in Europe and always comes back with souvenir bags of designer clothing he crumples up and throws in this closet—never wears. One night while they're making dinner, Eames spills half a glass of red wine on Arthur's favorite dress-shirt and Fischer walks off to his room and comes back with a badly wrinkled shirt that looks almost identical but Arthur knows cost an arm and a leg more than the one that's dripping wine down the inside of his arm.

After that, Fischer comes back from the parties and asks with a bored, contemptuous tone if Arthur wants anything. Eames has great fun picking out all the shirts and ties, separates some for Fischer and tells Arthur with grave seriousness he'll look smashing in puce paisley.

Arthur redoubles his efforts, notes what Fischer likes to drink and eat, to watch—and makes sure the apartment is never short on anything. Fischer eases up on his attacks as the weeks roll by with Arthur still sharing their space. He starts making enough coffee for three people instead of just two, will move to the loveseat and leave them the couch whenever they order in and spend the night watching television. He actually spends a few hours teaching Arthur some French, says he sounds like a Quebecer.

Eames assures him it's an insult—is still smiling wide and bright like a cat in a pet shop full of fat canaries.

It begins to feel like Arthur's dating Eames _and_ his best friend, but Fischer's warming up to him and Eames is giddy with joy.

That is, until Arthur overhears:

"This is my business, and as much as you feel privy, Robert, my business doesn't concern you." Eames sounds frustrated—agitated.

"You aren't thinking straight," Fischer sighs. "It's like Rio—"

"This is _nothing_ like Rio," Eames hisses.

"This is _exactly_ like Rio," Fischer insists. "And just like Rio, I'm going to be the one to take care of you when you fall apart." He huffs audibly, voice overflowing with sympathy. "I don't want to see you like that ever again, Charles."

Eames is quiet for a long time.

"Then it's time for a change."

Fischer sighs. "Maybe you're right. But it's not going to be now. Not this time."

Arthur quietly slips out before he can hear Eames's reply—doesn't think he'll be able to keep from pummeling Robert Fischer until he's a bloody mess—doesn't think Fischer knows anyone as well connected as Saito for another career opportunity.

\--

Arthur's checking his e-mails on his iPad, waiting for Eames to get up when Fischer emerges from his bedroom, sleep rumpled and still more attractive than Arthur even when he tries.

He looks at Arthur like he's insignificant, like he's ruining the decor of the apartment by being there. He cracks his neck. Arthur forces a smile. They stare at each other for ages, neither willing to submit to the scrutiny. Arthur already knows how Fischer feels—truly feels—about him. He's got nothing left to prove with him, is sick of placating and _trying_ when all he's met with is apathy and annoyance.

Arthur knows how much power he has in this little game of theirs. He's only been playing fair all this time because of how much Eames cares for Fischer. But Arthur knows, truly, deep down in his gut, that if he were conniving enough, devious enough, he could take Eames away from Fischer and keep him distracted with sex and attention—knows that if he asked, Eames would blindly follow him and never look back.

Arthur knows all this, and it's precisely why he's never asked.

Fischer suddenly nods—his mind made up—and walks past the couch and right into Eames's room. Arthur's vision momentarily fogs with anger. Fischer pops back out before Arthur can work himself into a proper rage. His brows are furrowed in determination—is resignation.

"He's been trying to give you this for a week. It's pathetic." Fischer only sounds Australian when he's first woken up, when he's trying to act angrier or more aloof than he actually feels.

He tosses something at Arthur that lands by his thigh.

It's a key.

Arthur's throat closes.

Fischer leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, looks away. Arthur squeezes around the key, his heart hurts.

"I see him more when you're here, anyway. So don't fucking lose that." Fischer leaves, clearly finished with the conversation.

An hour later, Eames finds Arthur still on the couch, still clutching the key. When Eames sees what he's holding, he flushes pink, ducks his eyes away, about to make a retreat into the kitchen for some coffee or toast to delay the inevitable talk that needs to follow. Eames is a sap at heart, but never enjoys having the practical conversations that follow his romantic gestures.

Arthur pins him to the couch before he can leave, kisses his soft lips over and over, tries to explain with his body and tongue and mouth what he's feeling deep in the pit of his gut. The words keep getting stuck in his throat—his kisses become clumsier and clumsier.

Eames's persistent smile makes it hard not to mimic.

\--

They split their time between the two apartments when Arthur's is fully restored, looks even better after.

He makes a point to give Eames and Fischer two full days a week for whatever it is they do, will catch up on sleep or go over reports for work.

It's a simple, neat arrangement.

Arthur hates every second of it.

\--

Arthur decides to surprise Eames one morning. He buys two cups of coffee and a caramel carrot muffin Eames has recently become obsessed with. He thumbs the new key on the novelty red die keychain Eames bought him, smiles at how powerful it makes him feel, how valued.

The door opens easily, closes without a sound. The entire apartment is filled with warm, bright light, gives the walls and furniture a cozy sepia hue. Arthur has an hour before he needs to be at work, contemplates stripping off his shirt and pants and joining Eames under his sheets, maybe wake him up and roll him over, mouth at his lips and cock until Eames pants for it.

He isn't expecting the sight of Eames and Fischer asleep together on Eames's bed when he opens the door.

Fischer is tucked in close to Eames's body, Eames practically inhaling his hair. Fischer's fully dressed in stylish black, Eames shirtless and in black boxers. Eames's hair is gelled down, the way he wears it when he wants to look impressive. There's paper confetti stuck to the backs of both their necks that Arthur recognizes from Eames's favorite bar in the city. They both look like they collapsed in exhaustion after a long night of heavy drinking—of partying.

It's not them together that makes Arthur clench his jaw. Not entirely. Eames is the clingiest person Arthur's every slept with—has actually gotten irritated with Eames for stubbornly refusing to let go of him when he gets overly hot. Eames's arm curled around Fischer's slender back barely registers.

It's the expression on Fischer's face—calm and content, at peace. Fischer's only even been apathetic or frustrated, sometimes disgusted and irritated. Arthur's still never seen him smile, or laugh or be the confident, charismatic man Eames insists he is.

Like this, Arthur can see how close they are, how Fischer trusts Eames, how much Fischer cares for Eames—enough to swallow down the dislike he has for Eames's meddlesome boyfriend and invite him into their home, just so he can have Eames close to him once again.

Arthur's stomach clenches with ugly jealousy. He knows, _knows_ he's walked in on something innocent, but Eames's room _always_ smells like Hugo Boss.

Eames doesn't wear Hugo Boss.

"Arthur?" Eames's voice is sleepily confused, his eyes unfocused. It's a sight Arthur's witnessed a hundred different times before, Eames so useless in the mornings, always extra affectionate, how he rumbles unhappily when Arthur extracts himself from the tangle of his arms and legs and leaves him for work.

Arthur places the coffee cups and muffin bag on Eames's vanity—accidentally knocks over the capped bottle of white face paint—and walks out of the room.

He has one foot outside the front door when Eames stumbles against his back, two solid arms wrap around his waist to prevent Arthur from going anywhere. Eames's dick is completely soft against Arthur's ass when he tugs him back inside the apartment. He only releases Arthur when he reluctantly shuts the door in front of him and turns in the circle of Eames's arms.

"Do we need to have a conversation about this?" Eames sounds exhausted, hung-over.

Arthur combs his fingers through his stiff hair—feels petty.

He's not truly jealous of Fischer—not exactly—but there's always been something about Fischer that makes Arthur feel like an irrational, love-starved teenager. Arthur's not sure if he's insecure because Fischer's better looking than he is, or if it's because of the ease in which he seems to understand Eames's life—his actions. It's clear that they're more than just roommates—like a team of some sort—but Eames told Arthur they'd never slept together and Arthur believes it.

He's got firsthand knowledge of how devastating Eames can be—how he's been utterly ruined for all other sex by the intimacy and physicality of Eames's person. He wouldn't give that up without a fight—if he were in Fischer's position—would certainly never let someone like himself waltz off with Eames's attention and passion.

"Even after all this time, I still can't get a read on you," Arthur huffs sulkily, sums up every doubt and insecurity he's ever felt in his relationship with Eames.

The only other person Arthur couldn't get a solid read on was a psychotic father of two who ended up using him as a bullseye.

"I've been informed that I can be like many people, all at once." Eames crowds him against the front door, touches Arthur's cheek with the tip of his nose, lightly brushes a chaste kiss along Arthur's cheek in a quiet apology.

Arthur pouts and doesn't give a shit. Eames seems terribly fond of Arthur's sulkiness, keeps nosing at his cheek with soft little bumps that make Arthur involuntary dimple. He keeps it up until Arthur's hackles are lowered, until he feels drained and tired—a fight they never seem to have about something they never talk about.

"Listen," Arthur resigns, carefully pushes Eames away. "We're both adults. If you want out, tell me and it's over, no hard feelings. Just make sure you fuck me into a coma beforehand, ok?" He tries to lighten his tone, but the expression on Eames's face is enough to make Arthur wish he could take back every word.

" _No_ ," Eames insists, voice hot. "I—what you saw—"

"I have you in my bed every night," Arthur interrupts, insulted. "You'd be a masochist if you need to go elsewhere after what I put your cock through."

The heavy mood breaks instantly. Eames laughs, pulls Arthur in for a quick, dirty kiss. When he speaks, his voice oozes heat—sincerity. "You keep surprising me, Arthur Levine. Perhaps I too haven't completely figured you out."

Eames spreads his fingers against the scar cluster on Arthur's chest. Arthur goes hot, everywhere, all at once.

"And you haven't allowed me to thank you for breakfast," Eames says, holds Arthur's chin in his hands and kisses him with a wet suck that echoes when Eames pulls off. Arthur's unbearably aroused.

"Yeah, thanks for the coffee, mate."

They jerk apart. Fischer is holding Arthur's cup with his long, graceful fingers—takes a long sip. He looks fashionable even as he stretches, his eyes bluer and colder than they've ever been as he walks past them to his room, shuts the door behind him.

Arthur feels all the work he's put into fostering a better relationship with Fischer fizzle into smoke.

He leaves, under-caffeinated, miserable, and still horny.

Eames doesn't try to stop him.

\--

Naturally, work that day is a disaster.

\--

"There was an attempted break-in last night," Marc says hastily, the moment Arthur steps in the building. His accent is garbled so badly, Arthur needs him to repeat what he said twice, finally understands when he switches to French.

"What? Why wasn't I immediately contacted?" He breaks off into a sprint, heads to the control console where he had all the security feeds wired. Marc and Guillaume are in step behind him.

"We only discovered the breach today when shift change was reviewing the tapes," Guillaume clarifies with a heavy sigh. He looks as tired as Arthur suddenly feels. "Our new security measures held. They were only able to avoid security in quadrant one and were blocked on all other fronts."

" _They_?" Arthur's head shoots up, his pulse races. "A man and a woman?"

Guillaume nods. "It appears so, yes. The cameras show they were at it for an hour before they gave up."

Arthur hits the play button, watches the tapes for himself. At 2:07am, two shadowy figures approach the front entrance at a crawl, manage to climb the pyramid and cut loose a pane of glass. Arthur had infrared lasers set up, watches as a slender blur lowers momentarily and retreats upward with a graceful flip. A larger blur hastily slips the glass back in place.

Both vanish into the night like shadows in shade.

Arthur's scar flares white-hot like a coal, his gut clenches in fury. Not a day goes by where he doesn't feel scared and sick with the memory of being crouched over like a lowly subject at the mercy of an unforgiving god.

Now, Dom and Mal Cobb have come back to finish what they started.

Arthur's ready for them.


	4. je vois la vie en rose

Arthur spends the entire morning calling the heads of every museum the Cobbs broke into—has them fax over a copy of the police reports and any in-house investigative reports that might have been issued afterward.

Within five hours, Arthur's practically swimming in faxes and pictures of the Cobb robberies from across the globe. He calls up the men and women inside the language booths one at a time—get them to translate reports in Arabic, Portuguese, Spanish, German, Mandarin—into English. Once that's done, he reads through each file once before creating a timeline of the thefts—starts with the three attempted break-ins at the Louvre and the first successful theft in Italy—moves on to Egypt, then England.

He spends almost two complete days holed up in his office—ends up with fourteen boxes of documents and crime scene pictures that he's half memorized. He starts thinking like a cop again—uses what he's learned from security and surveillance to piece together what he thinks is the way the Cobbs managed to sneak into twelve of the fifteen museums without so much as speck of trace evidence. They're exceptionally good at what they do—know exactly where all the cameras are and temporarily disable them during the heist. Never more than five minutes in and out. One report from The Niterói Contemporary Art Museum went so far as to compare them to phantoms.

There's only been two instances where the Cobbs've been caught on camera: the first time they attempted to break-into the Louvre—most likely just reconnaissance, Arthur realizes in retrospect—and the second from last night with the newly installed security cameras they had no idea existed.

Guillaume and Marc take turns bringing him food and bottles of water, cups of heavy coffee that set his blood afire with the jolts of caffeine. They're worried about him, but Arthur can't stop now, feels like he's on the precipice of monumental discovery—an insight to the Cobb hive-mind. They haven't sold any of the stolen artwork or rented out storage lockers. Individually, each painting is worth around fifteen million, but as a set—with insurance—are worth close to four hundred million.

The last painting—the one Arthur died for—hangs on a wall with a pressure sensitive frame, two silent alarms and four mini cameras drilled into the frames of the surrounding paintings. There's absolutely no way the Cobbs will get to it without bringing the entire French police squad down on their heads.

Arthur wants to be there when they try again.

He owes Cobb a bullet.

\--

Arthur brings every file home with him that weekend.

When he climbs the stairs to the apartment, he sees Eames sitting on his landing. He looks sleepy and a bit sore—clearly dozed off waiting for Arthur to arrive.

"What are you doing—" Arthur begins to ask before he realizes that Eames doesn't have a key to the apartment—that he's always gotten in by charming Arthur's neighbors into calling the landlord for the spare key.

Eames chuckles at Arthur's realization, winks at him adoringly.

"I'll have a key made tomorrow," Arthur promises, kisses Eames in apology. Eames looks insufferably pleased, kisses back with force.

"I wasn't expecting a key in return for mine," he says earnestly. "I understand the need for privacy and personal spaces."

Arthur wants to cut Eames off, but he doesn't even know where to begin. He's considered the apartment 'theirs' since Eames half moved in without either of them realizing—now—absolutely dreads coming back when he knows Eames won't be spending the night. He wants to tell Eames all of this, except Eames has already swept him over his broad shoulders in a sturdy fireman's carry—marches them off to the bedroom.

Arthur barely has his shirt off before he finds himself asleep, Eames's soft, warm mouth kissing his cheeks and eyelids, lulling him into an easy slumber.

\--

Arthur wakes late Saturday afternoon. All the windows in the apartment are open, the breeze crisp, and the smell of baked pastries makes his stomach growl.

He turns to wake Eames and suggest they eat out, but when he rolls over, the sheets beside him are cold to the touch—slept in, but currently empty.

Eames never wakes up before he does. He's always the one trying to con Arthur into spending the day lazing in sleep-warmed sheets, will resort to helpless, throaty pleas that turn Arthur on so quickly his dick gets whiplash. They've spent many, many weekends curled up trading deep kisses, or fucking until the boxspring squeaks threateningly, but Eames has never not been asleep behind Arthur when he wakes.

The newness of the scenario is enough to make Arthur curious—forces him out of bed even though his body craves more sleep.

He doesn't have to search at all—finds Eames a few feet away on the couch, his back hunched and head bowed. His shoulders and arms shake with tiny little movements. For a moment, Arthur thinks he might be jerking off, bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling at Eames's attempt at chivalry and letting Arthur catch up on the sleep he desperately needs.

Except when Arthur gets close, he sees Eames isn't jerking off at all—actually has one of Arthur's faxed police reports open across his lap. It takes Arthur a second to realize it's not any file—it's _his_ file.

His heart races, beats bloody thunder in his chest.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Arthur snaps, yanks the report from Eames's slack, shaking hands.

Eames was staring at a picture that makes the museum look like the inside of a slaughterhouse. Paramedics and officers had stampeded through his blood, smeared it all across the floor after they revived him. It's the first time Arthur's gotten a proper look at the picture, is mildly amazed that all that blood came from him.

"Arthur," Eames starts, voice just as shaky has his hands, his body. His eyes are glassy, wet looking—horrified the way they were the first time he saw Arthur's scarred chest and ran.

He isn't running this time. His gaze wavers between the scars Arthur doesn't bother to cover anymore and the folder Arthur's clutching so tightly it's bent in the middle. There's a wayward picture peeking out from the file—a blown up snapshot from an officer's camera phone—of Arthur's dead body. The paramedics are at the entranceway, bodies blurred with movement and low resolution. He was revived seconds later—had to have been—but right there is the proof of what Dom Cobb did to him.

Arthur shoves the picture inside, slams the folder on the coffee table where all the other folders have been neatly piled.

"You had no right." Arthur wants to yell—to scream at the violation.

"I wanted to know," Eames's voice cracks.

"And now you do," Arthur spits. "Was it as glamorous as you imagined?"

"How can you even ask that?"

The expression on Eames's face makes Arthur feel the deepest shame. They're both silent for several minutes—time stretching by slower than usual. Eames still looks devastated. Arthur's chest aches all over again. Eames is the most precious thing he's ever had—something so real and beautiful it breaks Arthur apart every day. He takes a step toward Eames knowing he'll make a grab at him, will pull Arthur onto the couch in his heavy arms the way he does whenever they fight about trivial things.

Except this time, Eames doesn't move to touch. Arthur's overwhelmed by how much it stings. He takes a seat beside Eames, presses in as close as he can. Eames relaxes all at once, their bodies melting against each other. Arthur touches his hair, the longer pieces that stick up in the back behind his ears that Arthur's taken to grabbing when Eames sucks him.

"They got my knee first," Arthur begins, his voice cool. The memory of the pain seeps in. Eames touches the thin, red line that bisects his knee, presses until he hits the heavy metal replacement. "I don't remember it hurting at first, but then Dom Cobb shot me." He lifts Eames's hand to the scars that know his touch better than Arthur's.

Eames leans down, kisses the scars, feather-light pecks that warm Arthur's belly.

"I didn't even think he'd shoot," Arthur remembers, the bitterness stiffening his voice. "But he did."

"Did he have a choice?" Eames asks.

"There's always a choice, Eames," Arthur sighs, swallows down his bitterness until it chokes him. "And when I catch him—" Arthur chokes, doesn't know how to finish.

"What will you do when you find him?" Eames sounds miserable.

"I want to hurt him." Arthur realizes for the first time that he means it. "I want Cobb to suffer—feel what it's like to lose everything."

Eames is quiet for a long time. He stands, passes his fingers through his hair—a tick he's picked up from Arthur. "Is what he did really that reprehensible?"

Arthur's appalled—knows it shows on his face.

"Are you fucking kidding me? Cobb _killed_ me, Eames!"

"I know that, all right?" Eames snaps, frustrated he isn't being clearer. He swallows heavily, tries again. "I know it makes me an utter shite, Arthur, believe me, I do, but I can't help feeling grateful for what happened to you."

Eames's words flay Arthur's skin, make him feel a pain he hasn't felt since he work up in an LA hospital pumped full of morphine and antibiotics. He doesn't know what to say. So Eames continues.

"You never would have come here, would you? Never would have a reason to come here and I would have never met you and all this," he gestures to the apartment, "all this would never have been."

"How can you say that? How can you defend _him_?" There's not enough oxygen in the room.

"I can't feel bad about being grateful for this opportunity—for _you_ , Arthur. I won't."

The betrayal Arthur feels wells up so heavily in Arthur's body he can taste it. He wants to scream, to hit. He does neither.

"Leave. _Now_."

Eames goes without a word of protest.

\--

Come Monday, Arthur locks himself in his office, smokes a full pack of cigarettes without eating anything.

He almost throws up—the nicotine and tar too heavy in his lungs—squelches down the illness and goes back to reviewing the first security tape from the Louvre, watches as Dom Cobb deactivates the silent alarm on his way into the pyramid—watches Mal cut the feeds to the perimeter cameras. Everything goes static fuzzy for five minutes.

There's an ache in Arthur's chest that amplifies with every rewatch, with every glimpse of Dom Cobb's blurred shape.

He wants to hurt Cobb so badly he burns.

\--

The Cobbs seem to disappear off the face of the Earth.

Arthur goes to his empty apartment every night, feels like they've somehow won another round when he wasn't even looking.

\--

There's an entire city Arthur has yet to explore, but, as the saying goes, Paris is for lovers.

He hasn't seen Eames in days—misses him like a lost limb. He doesn't have anything to come home to, so he stays late, obsesses on the Cobbs like they're an addiction he can't shake. He's memorized the timeline of their robberies to the point he can see the dates and locations when he closes his eyes. He's fallen asleep at his desk so many times his posture aches whenever he stands completely upright.

He tries to squelch down the loneliness—even goes to a few of the gay bars around his place and tries to pick up someone to take his mind off work, off his misery.

He lets himself be pinned to a bathroom stall, has his mouth attacked by a good-looking man with shiny tongue ring and dark green eyes—has to push him away after a few minutes when he can't muster up any sort of attraction, any sort of desire at all.

He still goes to the bars every night, drinks and ignores the passes made at him, politely sends back all drinks slid in front of him until they stop coming at all. His head always aches from the heat and alcohol, the loud music—has heard enough Katy Perry and Nicki Minaj to last a lifetime.

He doesn't know why he keeps going back, but by the end of the second week, he's made up his mind to move on, to stop wallowing.

He's not going to let his self-pity get the better of him again.

\--

The club seems like a completely different place when Arthur steps inside, looking to score. It's no longer a sweat and noise box, it's an aggregate of beautiful men and opportunity, a chance at being happy, if only for a night, to fend off the loneliness, if only for a night.

He dances—not well, but well enough to have people tug and pull him close, crush their bodies together. Arthur doesn't look at who he's with—knows he'll end up comparing everyone to Eames and doesn't want that, not tonight. He goes by on sensation instead—lets certain men hold him closer than others, touch him a little more fervently, keeps his eyes squeezed shut.

After an hour, he finds himself enjoying the aggressive, hard beats of the music, the stench of male musk and sex in the air. He knows he's hot. He always has someone up against his back, willing to try their luck at getting him hard, getting him interested enough to follow them home. He's had to practically drag four overly comfortable sets of hands out of his pants, has gotten used to the hands permanently groping his ass.

Try as he might, he can't stop comparing every hand that touches him to Eames's hand, every hard body against him to Eames's body—the hard dicks pressed against him to Eames’s. It still hasn't stopped hurting, a betrayal that cut to the quick. When he closes his eyes at night, he can still see Eames's face as he practically praised Dom Cobb’s handiwork.

But pining over Eames isn't the point of tonight.

Arthur makes up his mind. He's going home with the next man that touches him.

He doesn't have to wait long at all for a body to slide up against his back. A heavy— _familiar_ —arm circles his hips, pulls him close. Arthur's anger immediately cracks like brittle wood. His relief overwhelms him with such alacrity he lets out a sob that's swallowed up by the loud beats of the music pulsing around them.

"Are we finally going home with a bloke tonight?" Eames asks tightly, breath hot against Arthur's ear. His hands clench around Arthur's hips, his arms box Arthur in, hide him from everyone's line of vision. Arthur shudders against Eames's body, folds himself into Eames's bulk easily. Eames squeezes him closer, moves in time with the music, drags Arthur along for the ride.

Arthur tries not to let himself acknowledge how good—how _right_ —it feels to have Eames so close. He fails miserably, digs his nails into Eames's forearms, and pushes back until it feels like they're fucking with their clothes on. The music gets louder all around them, the heat of the club unbearable. Eames breathes heavily against his throat, nips at Arthur's neck frequently enough to make the skin red, rubbed a little raw from the hard stubble on his chin.

Eames's dick is rock hard against Arthur's ass, rides the cleft of his jeans. He's has had his thumb hooked in Arthur's belt loop since they started dancing. Arthur knows Eames can feel how hard his cock is in response. It's not a tease—actually feels a bit like agony.

"I almost killed a man a few nights ago," Eames confesses shamefully. Arthur goes stiff with shock, looks down at the hands on his waist, at the scabbed, bruised knuckles. Eames holds him tighter, his anger crackling at the memory. "This bastard with a tongue ring who thought he could take you."

Arthur shivers. Macho dominance displays have always turned him off. He has no idea why now it makes him want to drop to his knees and suck Eames off in the middle of the dance floor—why he's about to beg Eames to take him back to his apartment and fuck him until he aches with it.

"So you've been following me," Arthur steadies his voice, swallows around the dryness in his throat. He doesn't have full use of his lungs, has been inhaling little gasps of air that taste like Eames. It makes him so much harder in his jeans.

"Every bloody night," Eames hisses, squeezes him closer.

Arthur clings to him. He was so stupid to believe he could ever want anyone else. This is it for him. Eames is it.

But—

"But you aren't sorry for what you said."

Eames shakes his head.

"So where does that leave us?"

"Something like this, I imagine," Eames's voice is sturdier. "Me following you out every night, hurting anyone that has the audacity to think they're good enough for you until we both become old men." Eames kisses behind Arthur's ear, a non-apology. "I won't let anyone else have you, Arthur."

Arthur doesn't want anyone else.

They keep dancing together in silence, the music still throbbing and harsh. Eames has slackened his grip from Arthur's hips. Arthur knows he's building himself up to leave, to be noble. Arthur's so sick of not having what he wants when it's right within view. He weighs his pride and his anger at Eames against the ache he feels like a knife in his gut at not having Eames with him.

He craves Eames on top of him, moving in him. He's rubbed himself raw with only his imagination and a heavy dildo there to placate the ache—hates the impersonal, cold touch of the plastic, hates how his fingers aren't thick enough to fill him up properly.

He really doesn't want anyone else.

"When I can't sleep at night, I finger myself and imagine it's you," he admits. Eames groans behind him, loud enough that Arthur can hear it over the slamming loud beats of the music. "But it's never enough."

"What have you done to me?" Eames's voice is full of wonder—just a bit of fear. "You've ruined me."

Arthur's knees shake.

"Stay hard," Arthur hisses, grabs the hair at the back of Eames's neck and yanks him in for a brutal kiss. "Stay hard and beg me to take you back."

Eames reclaims his mouth like a starving man, a dying man. He pours everything he has into the kiss until Arthur can't stand that they aren't naked, that he can't touch him the way he's been craving. He's going home with the man who touched him. He leads Eames out of the bar by his wrist.

When they get back to Arthur's apartment, Eames goes down on him in the stairwell, spends the rest of the night milking slow, painful—gorgeous—orgasms out of Arthur's taxed body, doesn't stop until everything crackles and pleasure overwhelms him.

\--

Everyone at work notices the difference the second he walks through the doors on Monday.

When Eames stops by for lunch, Arthur's entire team spends the rest of the day gossiping like schoolyard children. Arthur's in too good a mood to stop them. He can still feel the pressure of Eames's mouth around his dick, can still feel the fresh bruises squeezed into his hips.

It's one of the most unproductive days Arthur's had since he came to France.

\--

For Halloween, Saito decides to throw an elaborate costume party at the Versailles Palace for himself and one hundred of his closest friends.

When Arthur gets the request, he momentarily wonders if it's a joke or not—if Saito actually expects the French government to allow one of the most historic buildings in the world to be at the mercy of a hundred drunk millionaires dressed up like vampires and flappers.

When he gets the guest-list, he sees the President of France and his wife have already RSVP'd.

He stays in his office, pours over blueprints and security layouts, spends 24 straight hours inventorying all the artwork and vases, has everything that isn't nailed down in Versailles placed in the vault in the Banque de France. He personally accompanies every armored car to the vaults, has a letter from the president of the bank decreeing that Arthur is to personally change and keep the code on the vault until all the artifacts are back at the palace.

He works when he's at home—has taken to eating cereal crushed up in his coffee, smokes until his lungs ache from the nicotine. He's stressed and irritable, people give him a wide berth when he storms past.

The worst of it, though, is he hasn't seen Eames in twelve days. His annual trip back to England for his father's birthday gala unfortunately overlapping with the most stressful two weeks of Arthur's life so far. He can't even call because Eames doesn't have a cell and Arthur doesn't have his estate number—doesn't even know what he'd say to him if he did.

He ends up collapsing from exhaustion one night, wakes when cold fingers touch his neck.

"Why do I keep finding you like this, my love?" Eames murmurs, sinks down beside Arthur and pulls him on top of his chest. Arthur moans at the contact, his stiff joints and sore muscles overjoyed at being stretched, rubbed by Eames's strong, talented fingers.

Arthur lets Eames massage away the worst of the aches and twinges before he pushes off—body already protesting.

"I have to get back to work," Arthur sloppily yawns into Eames's neck. Kisses the chilled skin to ground himself, wake up. Eames smells incredible.

"No, you need rest. You look like death warmed over."

The Halloween party is three days away. Arthur still has to finalize security for three wings, is vetting all the servers and caterers. He tells this to Eames as Eames picks him up and carries him to the bedroom. Eames softly places him on the bed he hasn't used in twelve days.

Eames climbs in next to him, coat buttoned, chilled from outside air. It feels amazing against Arthur's sore, hot back. Arthur swims in and out of consciousness as Eames rubs his palm up the side of his legs, over his ribs, up and down, soothing, slow, the friction lulling.

He dozes lightly—wakes twenty minutes later. Eames eyes him with worry. Arthur mentally feels better, more relaxed, but his body is an awful tangle of nerves and aches. He can't believe how much he's missed the intimacy—how much he craves more.

"What can I do to help?" Eames's voice cracks when he asks. He's still rubbing Arthur's back, his palms pink and sore looking. Now that Arthur's had a taste of sleep, it's all he wants. He feels like he could cry all of a sudden, being so exhausted and currently wired awake.

Eames nods solemnly, rolls Arthur onto his back. He whimpers when he's moved.

"Shh, my love," Eames says quietly, kisses Arthur's mouth quickly. He tugs Arthur's pants off his hips easily, kisses the curve of his hips, his belly, wraps his friction warmed hands around Arthur's dick and strokes him dry. It's just on the side of painful before Eames laps at the head of Arthur's dick and takes him fully in his mouth.

Arthur sighs, spreads his knees further apart. Eames's mouth feels incredible, works him with a learned confidence. He feels so good he doesn't know what to do with himself, Eames keeping a light, easy pressure that makes Arthur's nerves crackle like fried oil.

He's missed Eames—his body, what his mouth is capable of rendering him to. Arthur hasn't touched himself in twelve days, hasn't felt this incredible in twelve days. It should already be over, but Eames is dragging it along, keeps pulling off to kiss his knees and stomach, to shush him, pet at his sides and thighs. Eames is capable of destroying Arthur with his mouth—this time—keeps him strung along on the impending high of an orgasm until he feels remade.

When he comes, the relief is immeasurable. Eames pants when he pulls off, cheeks flushed and lips bright red, swollen deliciously. It's not fair, Arthur wants to whine. He wants to kiss Eames's beautiful mouth, taste himself still heavy on his tongue.

But he's already falling fast asleep, Eames curled right behind him as he should be.

\--

The next day, Arthur discovers a reserve of energy and determination he wasn't aware he possessed.

Within five hours, the caterers and chefs are vetted and catalogued, the guest list finalized, and the artwork completely organized and accounted for. He's finished before his afternoon hunger sets in, still feels incredible—like he could run a marathon.

"You just needed rest," Eames says after he's finished wringing another orgasm out of Arthur.

With the whole day ahead of them, they decide to go to Montmartre. They spend a few hours walking past the artisan crafts and expensive clothing boutiques and Eames tugs Arthur into every one. In some ways, he's worse than Genevieve, but Arthur doesn't mind Eames's hands all over his chest, buttoning him into peach and salmon colored shirts that he would never buy even if he had all of Saito's money. Still, Arthur can't help preening as the sales clerks fawn over his slender physique, at how the clothing fits like it was made exclusively for him.

They end up eating spicy fish on the steps of Sacré-Coeur, watch a street performer dazzle a crowd with his acrobatics. Eames huffs with petty jealousy whenever Arthur finds himself captivated by the bend of the man's body, how he climbs a streetlight and hangs by his foot, contorts his back until he's wrapped around the light like a bow.

"Amateur," Eames grumbles darkly, when he's lost Arthur's attention. Arthur laughs and laughs, kisses Eames's pouty lips until he can feel his face slacken.

When they leave, Eames possessively wraps his arm around Arthur's hips, pulls him in close when the contortionist walks through the clapping crowd accepting donations in a black bowler cap. Arthur wants to tease, to bring up what he must be like in bed, but Eames is clearly unhappy and it makes him hold his tongue.

Arthur tries to distract him, demands to do something incredibly touristy and suggests visiting the Eiffel Tower. Eames looks like he'd rather skin himself, but agrees with a sigh. He makes a quick pit stop at a bakery and buys two dozen macarons and a bottle of extremely potent cherry wine—claims they'll need both when braving the line.

By the time they're officially inside, they've polished off the wine and are more than a little tipsy. They lean heavily on each other all the way up the metal stairs, into the tightly packed elevator. Eames keeps stealing kisses, nuzzles Arthur's neck affectionately. Arthur keeps his hands anchored firmly on Eames's elbows, feels like he'll fall flat on his ass if he removes them.

The tower lights up while they're on the second platform, almost at the top. Eames pulls out the macarons, feeds bites to Arthur when he's too busy staring down at the city—too busy being dazzled by the blinking lights that highlight the structure of the Eiffel Tower. He's drunk, a little cold. Tourists snap pictures all around them, the noise of shuffling feet and camera shutters fade into background noise when Eames begins whispering all the depraved things he plans on doing to Arthur once he gets them back to his apartment.

It's cold as fuck when they finally reach the top, but seeing Paris lit up and sparkling makes Arthur ache in his chest. The city is more beautiful at night, electrified and filled with potential. He loves it here more than he thought possible.

After ten minutes of braving the winds, Arthur can't take the cold. He shivers while Eames mocks, lets him wiggle his arms up the sleeves of his _J'Adore Paris_ sweatshirt to keep warm. Eames is a furnace, his muscles tight and firm as he holds Arthur close while they wait for the elevator to take them down.

\--

"So what are we going as?"

"What?" Arthur's eating cold pizza over the sink, stirs the sugar in his coffee with the opposite hand.

"To the costume party, darling, do keep up." Eames steals a bite of the pizza, kisses Arthur on the temple mid-chew. It's so disgusting it's endearing. "Surely Saito invited you to the party you've practically organized."

Arthur does have an invitation—is always invited. But he told Saito he wasn't going—had Marc fill in for him. He was looking forward to spending the night with Eames— _alone_ —Fischer flown off to Belgium for a photo shoot.

"Do you want to go that badly?" Arthur really wants to spend the evening sucking Eames off and fucking until all hours of the morning in Eames's big bed. "Because I can think of a hundred things I'd rather you do to me than go to the party, Eames."

Eames immediately crowds Arthur against the hard ledge of the counter, mouth hot and wet against his neck. "Ohh, do go on. In detail. I know how much you enjoy specificity."

But now that Eames has planted the idea, Arthur can't stop thinking about the party—about being able to show Eames off. The idea really shouldn't be as arousing as it is.

"If we were to go," Arthur begins. Eames looks up from where he's been kissing Arthur's stomach, unbuttoning his pants. His eyes are bright and mischievous, the way he gets when he's delighted and amused—the way he looks at Arthur whenever he suggests something ridiculous and desperately wants Arthur to come along with him.

Arthur should have known better. He can't say no to Eames even on his best days.

\--

The party is six hours away. They can't seem to muster up the willpower to leave Eames's bed.

All stores are closed by the time they drag themselves into the shower. By this point, Arthur's resigned to not going, will change the sheets and order some food and spend the night watching horror films on whatever channel they can find them on.

But then he finds Eames in the bathroom, shaving. Eames only shaves when he goes to work, stays prickly and scruffy all weekend long. The makeup he uses doesn't cover facial hair very well, melts when it gets too hot. The days when the sun blisters down on Paris, Arthur always spots Eames at his regular corner in that white clay mask with the pouting red lips. Arthur's spent so much time staring, he can draw Eames's facial designs in his sleep.

Just like that, Arthur knows what he wants to go as.

\--

Arthur has enough random pieces of clothing at Eames's apartment to find a pair of black jeans that fit too snugly to be strictly decent. He knows Eames is terrible with the laundry and that chore falls to Fischer who hordes the clean laundry in his room until Eames wanders around shirtless or pantless begging for his clothing.

While Eames is changing in the bathroom, Arthur darts off to Fischer's excessively tidy room—sees a laundry basket with Eames's stripped shirt laying right on top. As he's yanking the shirt over his head, he realizes he's never been in Fischer's room before.

There are dozens of pictures messily taped to the walls—all of them are of Eames and him in different countries—either at fashion events or tourist spots. There are two pictures in frames on Fischer's dresser: one of him and Eames standing in front of the Sphinx with sunburnt smiles and the other of a small boy with round cheeks blowing a paper pinwheel as a man looks on fondly. Even with the baby fat on his cheeks, Arthur knows the boy is Fischer; the man, probably Fischer's father. It's clear Fischer must have gotten his looks from his mother.

Arthur feels like he's intruded, leaves without disturbing anything else.

Eames is still puttering around in the bathroom when Arthur takes a seat at his vanity, opens up the makeup bottles and riffles through the messy, side drawer that doesn't fully close for the makeup brushes he's seen Eames stuff inside once he's finished with them. He finds them near to back on top of Eames's mahogany passport.

Arthur's seen Eames put his makeup on many times before. He enjoys the ritual of it, the steady, precise way Eames mixes the white paint with a moisturizer, how he smoothes it along his cheeks with his powerful thumbs, covers every inch of his face before applying another layer of white, how he uses a narrow brush to outline the black pattern around his left eye, uses a larger brush to color it in.

He's not as skilled as Eames, but when he looks himself in the mirrors, he thinks he's done a damn good job.

"Darling, have you seen—"

When Arthur looks up, his mouth goes dry.

"Holy shit," he gasps inelegantly.

Eames has his hair slicked back and is in a three-piece navy suit that clings to his body like a prayer. Arthur's security badge is pinned to his breast pocket. He looks so goddamn good Arthur wants to mark him up like a feral wolf—is positive he can't leave the apartment with Eames looking a good as he does now—not unless he wants to fight off people all night.

"You're wearing my markings," Eames states dumbly, his fingers twitch against the stiffening makeup on Arthur's cheeks.

"Why are you wearing my security badge?" Arthur volleys, kisses Eames's knuckles.

"How else will people know I'm you?"

\--

Versailles is a fifty euro cab ride away from Eames's apartment.

When they pull up at the gate, Marc blinks in shock at seeing them, laughs when Eames does an impressive imitation of Arthur's accent, and hands over the invitation. Arthur, feeling playful, does a quick two step followed by an exaggerated bow when Marc allows them through, still laughing.

Inside, the party is even more lavish than Arthur had anticipated. The room is dimly lit by thousands of black candles, the floor completely obscured by a crawling, swirling fog. Projections of translucent people are beamed onto the floor from a skillfully hidden projector on the ceiling. Amelia Earhart and Napoleon waltz next to a ghostly couple, laughing richly between themselves.

The wait staff are all dressed as skeletons. They serve up tall flutes of champagne and intricately crafted hors d'oeuvres while looking ghastly and beautiful.

Eames vibrates with energy by Arthur's side, takes his hand and pulls him toward the open bar where a beautiful bartender is dressed like a sultry pirate wench. Arthur can't hear what Eames orders over the roaring music, but drinks the shot Eames gives him, sucks off the liquor that spills against his fingers. It's good. Eames hands him another and he downs it just as easily. 

"One wonders how many shots it'll take to get you to dance," Eames half shouts in Arthur's ear, nuzzles at his hairline to avoid ruining his makeup.

The answer is eleven.

\--

The party is incredible.

Marie Antoinette steals Eames away for a dance and he dutifully spins her around the dance floor, fog swirling around their legs. Arthur watches from the buffet table, eyes swelling with pride. Every woman in the room wants to dance with Eames, will cut in on each other and giggle and blush when he kisses the backs of their hands and sends them back to their husbands.

Mostly everyone has met Arthur at some point, and they find Eames's costume and spot-on impersonation of Arthur hysterical. Arthur keeps up his mime charade all night, has watched Eames's performance enough to mimic most of his elaborate, telling gestures. He knows he's terrible, but the look Eames gives him after is indecent.

They spend all night drinking champagne and eating succulent food, dance until they're both sore. They laugh, crushed together, ignoring the sounds around them. Eames's mouth is stained red from Arthur's lipstick. It makes Arthur kiss him harder. Mark him.

Around two in the morning, Arthur needs fresh air—grabs hold of Eames and drags him out to the balcony. Eames is just as drunk as he is, keeps kissing him while reverently touching the outlines of Arthur's makeup. They're so drunk Eames keeps slipping between accents, his voice heavy with sleep. Arthur lets Eames pull him close even though Arthur's tried very hard all night not to get face paint all over the gorgeous suit Eames is wearing.

"I think you should take me home now, Mr. Eames," Arthur finally breaks his silence. Eames rumbles his approval from deep in his chest, wraps his hands around a fistful of his striped shirt and pulls Arthur in for an aggressive, rough kiss that leaves Arthur's mouth smarting.

"I'll go ring us a cab," Eames promises, darts into the ballroom and disappears in the crush of bodies.

Arthur's head begins to spin. He leans heavily against the stone railing, rubs at his sore, foggy eyes. Without Eames there to hold him up, he suddenly realizes just how wobbly his legs are. When he opens his bleary eyes, everything fractures and doubles as if it's being skewed. He takes two heavy, fortifying gulps of cold air, turns away from the flickering party lights and looks at the night sky.

And sees the hazy outline of Mal Cobb, three balconies away. She's breathtakingly lovely in a slinky black dress and high collar—looks like a wicked witch and a fashion model. It can't be her, Arthur tries to reason. He went over the guest list intensively—knows every single name that went out on the invitations and who checked in at the front door.

"Arthur!" Eames shouts behind him, beacons him inside with a wide swipe of his arm. He turns for just a second, and by the time he looks back, Mal is gone—disappeared into the night as if she were never there to begin with.

He's so very, very drunk, he remembers—has to be if he's hallucinating.

\--

Two days later, the silent alarm located on the back of Saito's painting trips at three in the morning.

Arthur rockets out of bed and is at the museum in ten minutes, is still wearing his pajamas and shivering bitterly from crisp November cold.

"What happened?" Arthur snaps. "How did they get past all our security measures?"

Nobody can answer him, everyone looks just as pissed and confused as he feels. The Cobbs apparently managed to discover six of the ten cameras, bypassed all the pressure sensitive alarms and disabled the infrared sensors along the corridor to the painting without a single guard noticing.

Arthur watches from one of the hidden frame cameras as Dom detaches the painting from its frame—almost has it completely free before he accidentally slips the second hidden alarm. Thirty police officers surrounded the building in under four minutes, but the Cobbs managed to escape, just as they always have.

Arthur wants to put his fist through the computer monitor.

"Go back to your home," Marc suggests, pushes Arthur out of the room with a gentle nudge. "Get more sleep. This will all be here for you when you are awake."

Arthur nods, wraps himself in the jacket Marc draped around his shoulders and heads back to his apartment—stops—then cuts around to go to Eames's. He's tired and cold by the time he unlocks the door, stumbles over Eames's haphazardly kicked off shoes—wakes Eames in the process.

Eames doesn't say anything, just gathers Arthur in his chilled arms and pins him to the mattress, falls back asleep within seconds. Arthur follows him helplessly and doesn't wake until his phone alarm beeps four hours later.

\--

Arthur now has three security tapes of the Cobbs.

Each show a little more, reveal more of their dynamic, their skill. He watches each tape religiously, until his team forces him to leave at night by calling Eames in to get him.

Eames always waits patiently in Arthur's office for him to shut down his computer, gather up his files and jacket. He understands how important this is to Arthur, never fusses about all the late nights and Arthur's obsessive behavior.

He just collects Arthur at the end of each night, brings him back to his apartment and feeds him stuffed peppers, savory rice, and charred salmon, will then tug him off to his big bed where he'll kiss and kiss Arthur until he's either overcome with arousal or exhaustion, will wake up with Eames curved around him like a parenthesis, warm and solid and all Arthur's, forever and ever.

\--

With Arthur's work schedule since the second break-in, they only get a few hours here and there to actually fuck.

They take advantage of every single second.

Eames is currently three fingers deep, _deep_ inside Arthur, is hitting and sliding against all the right places when he reaches for the box of condoms Arthur has taken to leaving out on the bedside table, comes back empty-handed.

"Fuckin' hell, we're out of rubbers."

Arthur shakes his head. It's impossible. He'd optimistically bought the double pack at the discreet sex shop down the street—knew they'd been fucking a lot, but certainly not burn-through-a-double-pack-in-under-a-week a lot.

Except when Arthur reaches for the box, it's pathetically empty. Even the condom he keeps in his wallet had been used by their second date, left unreplaced.

"It's ok," Arthur quickly reassures when Eames's fingers slow their methodical stretching. "You can have my—my mouth— _Jesus_ —just keep your fingers in me."

Except Eames is already beginning to withdraw.

Arthur scrambles to catch his wrist, squeezes shamelessly as he sinks back down, plugs himself back up. This really is all he needs—Eames's blunt fingers inside him, nudging against his prostate, Eames under him, purpling cock just cresting his foreskin, leaking over his tight stomach. He'd never thought the sight of a partner could turn him on like this, but he'd never fucked anyone as hot as Eames.

Arthur grinds sharply on Eames's hand, rides his fingers—feels contently full. He's suddenly desperate to mouth Eames's cock, feel its painful thickness at the back of his throat—wants to _choke_ on him while Eames fingers him into a too quick orgasm—wants to keep Eames trapped beneath him and hard for another round—isn't sure what he wants more but knows he wants it all at once.

"Fuck," Eames curses and successfully extracts his fingers from Arthur's momentarily slackened death grip. He turns his head away, a pale blush highlighting his cheeks. He looks beautiful in his embarrassment. Arthur immediately stops trying to goad Eames into fucking him, settles his weight on Eames's iron stiff cock and draws his face toward his.

"What's wrong?" he teases, leans down and peppers kisses along the blush staining Eames's face, desperately wants to suck on his fat lips.

Eames clears his throat, shakes his head and pulls Arthur's mouth to his, bites Arthur's tongue and draws it into his mouth with a filthy, powerful suck. "It's nothing, my love. Get that magnificent arse back here."

If Arthur was one to let things go, he wouldn't've been shot—wouldn't've met Eames—would never have this incredible second life he's become addicted to.

"Tell me," he insists, smiles until his dimples hurt his cheeks. He inches his way down Eames's body—teases the slit of Eames's cock with a spit wet flick of his thumb. He has absolutely no qualms sucking the evasion out of Eames until he's cracked open and the truth sticks out like a fortune cookie.

"It's noth— _ahh_ —" Arthur swallows the head of Eames's dick, cradles the weight on his tongue for ten gorgeous seconds, gets Eames soaking wet and gleaming, comes close to abandoning his interrogation in order to get another taste.

"You gonna tell me now?" Arthur bites back his laugh, wraps both hands around the base of Eames's cock, goes down again, only comes up for air when his lung are about to pop, his jaw smarting.

Eames moans, words tumbling from his lips with a shaky, aching urgency. "Oh, _Christ_ , you utter _bastard_."

Eames is pink in the cheeks, his fingers clenching through Arthur's hair, yanking and struggling to fit his mouth back on him—so close to whimpering and begging that Arthur goes a bit insane.

"I," Eames swallows, his face now completely red, "I—"

"Yes?" Arthur sing-songs, laps at the glans of Eames's dick. Eames finally manages to steady his hands enough to grab Arthur's hair, tugs until they're face to face. Eames's eyes are hard and serious, his jaw clenched.

Arthur stops smiling, presses his fingers lightly against Eames's lips. When Eames kisses the pads of his fingers, he relaxes instantaneously.

"I want to start fucking you bare, Arthur."

Arthur forgets to breathe for a second. He's never fucked without a condom before, was never with anyone long enough to even consider it.

Except Eames isn't just anyone. They've been together for almost a year. Arthur _trusts_ Eames, plans on being with Eames for all the foreseeable future. He wants Eames and nothing else between them, wants Eames coming inside him, branding him.

The thought of it warms him to the core, makes him feel more alive than ever before.

So Arthur shimmies up Eames's body, coy and slow like a preying snake. Eames follows his movements with cautious, assessing eyes. Arthur stops when his knees bracket Eames's ears. Eames shifts to accept the weight, his arms curling involuntarily along Arthur's lower back and ass, draws him closer.

"Get your fingers wet," Arthur orders, "and get them back inside me. If you can get me off before I get you off then I'll think about it."

The look of challenge is too great. Eames barely has a second to register the taunt before Arthur flips around, has Eames back in his mouth. The growl that escapes Eames has Arthur halfway gone, already knows if Eames gets one finger in him at all this will be over quickly.

He should have expected Eames to play dirty.

He hooks his calf around Arthur's neck, pins Arthur on his cock, makes his eyes water at the new angle, at how deep Eames is inside his throat. Eames doesn't even bother with his fingers, holds Arthur's hips tight with both hands and _swallows_ , sucks every inch of Arthur's cock with unmatchable pressure, has Arthur coming and shaking from the sheer intensity of his orgasm—feels his body go through the motions _again_ when Eames finally shakes apart under him.

Eames pulls him up with greedy hands, licks into his mouth and wipes at the corner of his eyes, covers his body with his and refuses to let go until Arthur stops trembling, until his heart finally settles in his breast—Eames's blunt nails tracing the scars on his chest with reverence.

\--

Arthur wakes twenty minutes earlier than he normally does.

Eames is still unconscious, the empty condom box half crushed under his heavy calf. Arthur gently tugs it away, tosses it in the garbage can and realizes that that's the last box of condoms he ever wants to buy. He lets the gravity of the revelation warm him for a minute, feels happier than he can ever recall being.

He crawls back under the sheets, takes in Eames and his messy, cowlicked hair, his creased cheeks and parted lips. Arthur has to kiss him awake, loves how soft and confused his mouth is, how it unconsciously chases after Arthur's when he tries to pull away. He brushes down Eames's soft blond hair until it lays flat on his head.

Eames stubbornly tries to pretend he's still asleep. Arthur keeps kissing the upturned pout of his mouth, laughs whenever Eames grumbles and digs his face further into his pillow. The tops of his ears curl to little points like an elf. Arthur kisses them too, keeps kissing .

Eames rolls on top of Arthur, traps him beneath the full weight of his body. Arthur laughs—kicks out—but Eames continues to pretend to be sleeping, wraps his arms and legs around Arthur until he can't squirm an inch—until Arthur stops his weak struggling. When it becomes apparent Eames is going to keep using Arthur as a full-body pillow, Arthur pokes and pinches until Eames reverses their positions, lets Arthur make himself comfortable while stroking the bones of his spine.

Arthur's skin always burns when he can't touch Eames, when he can't twine his naked limbs around him. He wants Eames all the time, with his every breath. It makes him feel like half of a whole—like less of a person when Eames isn't with him. He doesn't want Eames not with him anymore, takes what feels like the first honest breath since meeting Eames and says:

"I'm in love with you."

His admission rocks right through Eames—jerks him. Arthur clings to Eames's back to avoid being thrown, but Eames is squeezing him so tight he doesn't even jolt when Eames is completely upright.

He looks completely vulnerable, so unbelievably beautiful. When he smiles, Arthur has to kiss him.

Arthur's cell interrupts the moment. Under absolutely any other circumstance, Arthur would ignore it, but the alarm ringtone he set up for work emergencies blares shrilly, impatiently.

Eames doesn't looks bothered at all, is still smiling wide. Arthur kisses him, mutters apologies into his mouth.

It's Pierre.

He tells Arthur the police just recovered the body of Mal Cobb. Arthur stops breathing. Pierre continues gravelly. The coroner approximates her time of death around Halloween.

She's been dead for ten days.


	5. ne me quitte pas

Arthur gets to the hospital in record time.

Amongst the doctors and paramedics, Pierre is at the entrance smoking anxiously. When he sees Arthur, he drops his cigarette, beacons him with a clipped jerk of his head and walks inside quickly. Arthur follows.

They walk down two flights of stairs to the cool basement where the morgue is located. The coroner—Luc—is Pierre's brother-in-law—said he'd give them five minutes with the body and his results before he hands them off to the police. He's waiting by the staircase and looks nervous. Arthur knows they shouldn't be there—not yet at least—but Saito's name has pull everywhere.

Just like the movies, the body is under a heavy white sheet in the middle of the room. When Luc carefully peels back the sheet, Arthur stares upon the lifeless face of Mal Cobb.

"It's her," Arthur confirms with disbelief, voice shaking.

Her skin gray and waxy, her lips cracked and chalk white. Her hair is still damp from where she was pulled from the water. Arthur had only ever seen her in pictures and on video feeds. She was a burst of energy contained in a slender, stylish frame. Seeing her so lifeless is jarring—wrong.

"Have you contacted her husband?" Arthur asks softly.

"We cannot locate him," Pierre says in his overly enunciated English.

"Her parents, then," Arthur pushes. "She's a French national, those records have to be somewhere."

Pierre clicks his heels together, his back straightening. He's off with a military turn, will complete his new orders dutifully.

Seeing Mal dead on a slab makes his heart unexpectedly ache. He always thought the suffering of the Cobbs would bring catharsis, would dull the pain of his wounds. If anything, Mal's body drives home just how useless—wasteful—his anger has been. She has two kids, he remembers. A boy and a girl; both too young to be without a mother. He can't believe he thought he wanted this.

"What happened?" he asks. He can't take his eyes off Mal's face.

"Drowned," comes Luc's grim reply. He touches the gold cross on the chain on his neck before he continues. "There are signs that she jumped, but I will need to examine her further. The cold water of the Machine de Marly preserved the body remarkably well."

A shiver races through Arthur's body. He feels ill.

"She jumped into the Machine de Marly? In Versailles?"

"Exactly."

"And you think it was around Halloween?" Arthur asks carefully, his heart racing.

"No, I know it was Halloween," Luc says, walks to his desk and collects a file, hands it to Arthur. "She was in that."

Inside are glossy evidence pictures of Mal's body after it was dragged from the water. Her hair is twisted around her face, but the shimmery dress is something Arthur remembers: a slinky, black number with a high, fanned collar. A haute couture wicked witch costume.

He's immediately brought back to the party at Versailles, how he thought he was drunk, hallucinating, seeing Mal Cobb on a balcony not ten feet away from him, giggling under the stars. She wasn't on any guestlist, disappeared into the night within the blink of an eye, a thought Arthur easily pushed from his mind at the prospect of returning home to his bed with Eames.

He never even thought to look down—didn't even think she was real.

He might have been able to save her.

\--

Pierre gets back to him by the end of the workday.

Malorie Cobb, nee Malorie Miles to Stephen Miles, a respected professor of architecture at the École Spéciale d'Architecture, and Marie Miles, a patron of the arts and staple at every major political and social function in Paris.

Marie Miles was one of the first invitations Arthur sent for Saito's Halloween party, was the seventh RSVP he received. Her plus one that night, her beautiful daughter.

Her beautiful daughter, who happened to be undergoing intensive therapy for postpartum depression, who believed her children weren't really her children but imposters only she was able to recognize. She was on a powerful antidepressant, was drinking steadily all night.

When she disappeared, Marie assumed she'd gone home.

Her body's being cremated, the ashes scattered in Toulouse.

\--

Arthur's hated the Cobbs for what he thought they did to him. His anger stewed in him like a disease, a parasite.

He'd seen their names attached to the last three museums that were robbed and decided that it had to be them despite the dozens of people ready to offer alibis for every robbery. He stubbornly clung to the idea that they were just excessively clever, that they'd managed to fool everyone into believing their innocence while they waltzed off with millions of dollars in stolen artwork.

They were in talks to redesign a section of the MOMA two days before it was robbed, were still in New York when the Met was hit. They were four blocks from the museum at a gallery opening the night he'd been shot and on a plane to Paris while Arthur was flat-lining in an OR at Cedars-Sinai. Before that, at the Museo del Prado in Madrid giving a lecture on post-colonial Spanish architecture for the Complutense University of Madrid.

They'd fit the timeline so neatly—could have easily hopped from country to country in Europe by train, wouldn't have looked remotely out of place traveling the country as a beautiful, married couple on vacation, their suitcases padded with Saito's stolen artwork.

But that never happened.

Arthur locks himself in his office, replays the latest security tape—hopes this rewatch will yield some new information, something that he's missed.

The cameras are high definition, the image is sharp and clear. Two figures clad in tactile black slide into the Louvre from nylon ropes attached from the ceiling, one broad and masculine, the other willowy and feminine. They work completely in synch; Mal cuts the visible security feeds, while Cobb sets to work on deactivating the frame sensor. When Mal's finished, she joins Cobb, begins stowing away the tools and helps hold the frame still.

But then Cobb triggers the second sensor and the machine he'd clipped to the frame flashes vibrant red. They scramble proficiently, a ten second clean-up. Cobb drops the frame back in place, darts to the rope he'd used to slide down while Mal rushes gracefully and unclips all the equipment blocking the cameras.

They're completely gone before any police car even leaves the station.

Except, it's not Mal, not at all.

Mal jumped to her death in front of Arthur's alcohol fuzzy eyes two days before the tape was recorded, before the break-in even happened.

The wispy, slender figure on his screen he's always assumed was her is clearly somebody else. It dawns on Arthur in that second that he's wasted a year chasing ghosts around the world, has absolutely no leads whatsoever on who the thieves actually are. Arthur looks over at his timeline, sees all the work he'd poured into connecting the Cobbs to each crime, how all of it is a glaring error.

He's had the wrong suspects the entire time.

He watches the footage again, pauses on the best shot of the female thief. He'd been so, so sure he was right.

But now he has to face the irrefutable fact of the matter.

He wasn't.

\--

The hours inch by.

At three in the morning, his cell rings—startles him. His head feels stuffed, his back a nasty knot of pain from hunching. His eyes burn when he looks at the call display, see the silly picture Eames took of Fischer when he was mid-chew.

Fischer never calls him, which means Eames wrestled his phone away from him.

"Are you ever coming home?" Eames mutters sleepily, his voice a shot of warmth through Arthur's core. Arthur closes his eyes, tries to cling to it, rolls the stiffness in his shoulders only to make it worse. He begins to really feel the aches in his joints, his headache finally cresting. He's starving, thirsty, angry at himself for his mistake, frustrated with himself over not figuring it out sooner. He doesn't remember ever being this tired.

"I have more work to do," Arthur yawns, his jaw cracking. He was going over the robbery timeline again, looking at it with new eyes, stripped from the heavy stain of the Cobbs presence. He's coming up blank, feels more desperate for answers that he doesn't have. The thought of only getting those answers _if_ he captures the thieves makes Arthur feel pathetic.

Worst of all, the guilt of Mal's death weighs heavily in his chest—the near constant pain from his scar finally outmatched.

"Arthur," Eames says gravely, interrupts his manic thoughts. Even now, when he's borderline annoyed and fond, Eames's voice sends tingles through Arthur's body. "Come home."

Arthur nods at the phone helplessly.

\--

It begins snowing while Arthur walks to his apartment.

Within five minutes, the ground is covered in a light layer of snow. The soft crunch of Arthur's heavy boots resonate in the empty streets as Paris twinkles around him. Arthur's seen paintings and movies of Paris in the wintertime, dusted white.

It's staggeringly beautiful.

\--

The novelty lasts a block.

\--

By the time he gets to his entranceway, Arthur's ready to bathe in lava to alleviate the cold.

His lungs burn from inhaling the cold, his nose frozen and leaking down his chin. He lost feeling in the tips of his fingers, has his hands shoved so deeply in his pockets he can feel the stitching begin to give. Snow blew into his eyes; his scarf, sweater, and jacket almost ineffectual in keeping him warm.

When he opens the front door, he discovers Eames cranked the thermometer up. The blast of heat to his face makes him whimper. As if it knows its safe, Arthur's body starts collapsing—stress and weariness defeated by the miserable weather. He stumbles out of his boots, blindly inches his way toward the bedroom. Eames is still awake, curled under the blankets. He looks immeasurably relieved once Arthur makes it into the room, peels back the covers invitingly.

Arthur drops his coat on the floor, immediately crawls under the sheets and wraps himself around Eames who's always hotter than a furnace. Eames cards his fingers through Arthur's hair, kisses his hairline.

"You stupid bastard," he curses, absolutely no heat behind his words. Arthur smiles into his neck, stubbornly burrows his freezing nose into Eames's throat. Eames huffs, squeezes Arthur closer. "I must be mad to put up with you and your freezing appendages."

Arthur's already dropping off to sleep, finally warm and comfortable, Eames's palm stroking up and down his back, his breathing soothing, constant.

It's Arthur's favorite way to fall asleep.

\--

He takes a day off work the next morning, lets Eames bundle him up like a nesting doll, and goes for a walk around the neighborhood to clear his head.

The light snow melted with the morning sun, but weather reports call for a proper snowfall later that night. Arthur's determined to capitalize on the day, pushes all thoughts of Mal Cobb and the thieves from his mind, makes his way through the closing outdoor market and buys fish and hot chocolate and as many bottles of wine as he can carry.

He feels like he's going into hibernation, has enough food to last a month. The idea of being burrowed under sheets with Eames, lasting out the frigid cold of the winter together, warms Arthur straight through his body, pinks his cheeks in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the cold.

When he gets back to the apartment, his front door is pushed open.

Arthur tells himself not to panic, that Eames leaves the door unlocked as a matter of course—until he sees the teapot on the stove, just about to whistle shrilly. There's a mug with loose tea at the bottom, the milk is out on the counter and the sugar spoon is on the floor, sugar messily scattered along the floor and countertop.

Arthur's gut tightens.

Then he sees the blood.

\--

There's blood everywhere, drops and streaks along the walls and floor, a footprint smear and a handprint on floor next to a little pool of blood that's half dried and crusting over.

Blood is streaked against the walls, a half-handprint visible, already dried and flaking.

Arthur's vision tunnels.

He stumbles after the drops with numb, heavy feet. Everything stops at the bathroom. The door is closed over, the light isn't on.

Arthur barrels in, stomach in knots and his heart lodged in his throat, and sees Eames passed out in a bloody, swollen mess.

For a fraction of a second, Arthur takes in the sight before him, the blood running along the cocking of the tiles, fanning out like a morbid spiderweb, the little puddle of blood running from under his torso.

Arthur drops to the cramped floor feeling like his entire world is fracturing and floating away.

Eames is curled in on himself, squashed beside the toilet. His chest is rising slowly, his left leg twitching imperceptibly. His bottom lip is split in three places, his cheeks bruised and puffy. The gashes on his forehead are still lightly bleeding. Arthur calls 112 and screams frantically at the poor dispatch operator to send an ambulance.

When Arthur touches his face, Eames stirs, blinks from one eye, groans. He's trying to protect himself, shield his stomach. Arthur can see the wet stain of blood covered by Eames's clenched fists, tries to calmly reassure Eames he's not going to hurt him, just needs to see the injury. Eames relaxes at his voice, the tension in his body easing so Arthur can feel away his hands, stares at a bloody knife wound and how deep it goes.

When Arthur gently eases away his hands, a red poker chip falls from Eames's limp fingers—a token from whoever attacked him. His knuckles are cut up and raw—the pinkie on his right hand is broken.

Arthur pockets the chip before the paramedics get there.

He's going to kill whoever did this.

\--

Once they're at the hospital and Eames is out of surgery, Arthur calls Fischer.

He has no idea where Fischer actually was, but within seven minutes, he's storming through the hospital entrance, his beautiful face twisted into the ugliest sneer Arthur's ever seen.

"Where is he?" he barks, his fury and worry thickening his accent.

"Recovery unit," Arthur replies, frustrated that nobody will let him see Eames. He's been sitting on the stiff, plastic chairs for over an hour, has pleaded with nurses and any doctor that will listen to him, but each one has politely told him to take his seat and they'll let him see Eames when he's moved to a hospital room.

Fischer makes a disgusted sound at the back of his throat, spins on his heels and marches over to the reception desk. Within a minute of pulling out his wallet and slamming a card on the countertop, Fischer's lead by a nurse toward the doors with the large sign that points to the recovery rooms.

Arthur's jealousy nearly blinds him. He has to take a deep, calming breath to center himself, to keep his anger abated. It doesn't matter that Fischer is with Eames right now because Eames is his—will be his for the rest of their lives.

They're going to grow old together.

Arthur will make sure of it.

\--

To pass the time, Arthur grabs a magazine off the pile on the table.

The magazine is a year old, torn and dogeared every other page. The once glossy pages are dulled with wear and sun exposure, worn by anxious people attempting to calm their nerves by flipping mindlessly through pictures of models and celebrities at nightclubs.

Arthur's trying very hard not to think about Eames and Fischer in the recovery room, keeps his eyes glued to the outdated fashion trends and diet tricks.

The next page he flips to says 'Milan Spring/Summer 2011' in hot pink letters. It's not the title that catches his eye, but the half-page blow up of Fischer and Eames, side by side, looking absolutely devastating together. Arthur vaguely remembers seeing the same picture taped to Fischer's bedroom wall. Eames is in a dark gray suit and light blue shirt, opened wide at the collar. Fischer is in all black with canary yellow suspenders. They both look a little flustered. Eames has a hand casually resting on Fischer's hip and Fischer is leaning into him, smiling. Fischer never smiles in pictures.

The caption reads 'Tardy to the Party! Robert Fischer and date at the Versace afterparty, June 24th'.

The date pings in Arthur's memory for all the wrong reasons. 

Arthur sits back, takes a calming breath. June 24th, Milan.

The night of the fourth robbery.

\--

The nurse that took Fischer to Eames politely taps on Arthur's shoulder, informs him he's free to visit his friend in room 528.

Arthur numbly pushes himself up from the chair, walks in a daze with a lingering sense of dread, of nausea swimming in his gut. When he approaches Eames's recovery room, he slows down—hears Eames and Fischer talking softly amongst themselves.

When he peeks in, he sees Fischer's pressed against Eames's chest, curled up in the narrow space beside Eames and the guardrail, his head tucked under Eames's chin.

With the blood cleared away, Eames somehow looks worse.

Fischer gingerly skims his fingers along the worst cut on Eames's face—the one that slices down his eyebrow and is held together with thick black surgical thread. Eames's hands are bandaged and his finger is set with a metal splint. Fischer shakes, toys with the hospital bracelet on Eames's wrist, looks scared and hopelessly lost.

"How long do we have before they come back?" he asks, his voice soft, filled with so much love and concern it cuts Arthur at the knees.

For a moment, Eames doesn't respond.

Then—

"End of the month." He smoothes down Robert's hair, draws him closer. Robert burrows further into Eames's chest.

Arthur doesn't need to hear anymore—his panicked thoughts already eating away at his brain.

\--

Arthur remembers seeing Eames's passport around Halloween, in the junk drawer of his vanity.

He takes a cab to Eames's apartment, and nearly yanks the drawer out of its slot in his haste, sees the passport where it was the last time, under makeup brushes, toward the back. Arthur holds his breath, flips through the pages. Cuba, three years ago, Argentina during the same trip. Italy and Paris last year. Every other page is blank.

Arthur shudders out a breath that was lodged in his throat, starts to laugh neurotically.

Just a coincidence, his overactive brain, hyped up on panic and nerves, stress from work.

He drops Eames's passport back in the drawer, feels like a fool for suspecting a street mime and a runway model; actually starts to laugh in earnest at the thought of Eames, who barely remembers to collect his tip jar after he’s done for the day, orchestrating master heists across the globe, and Fischer, too physically weak to carry bags of groceries back from the market, shimmying his weight up a rope to escape police.

He pushes the drawer back in a little too forcefully, hears the unmistakable echo of ripping tape.

Arthur freezes, his laughter drying up in his mouth. He pulls the drawer out a little, pushes it back in again, is still met with the sound of tape coming loose.

In a flash, Arthur rips out the drawer, reaches inside to feel around. His fingers brush against a plastic bag, taped to the roof of the vanity, yanks it free with little effort. The black bag makes Arthur's gut tighten so sharply the cramp knocks him to his knees. He tears into the plastic viciously with his nails, dumps the contents onto the floor messily, his heart rate spiking.

Inside are four different passports under four different names—Pascale Viau the Frenchman; Seamus Walsh the Irishman; Christopher Speedman the Canadian; Aleksander Danko the Ukrainian.

Pascale has been to Spain and New York, Seamus: Japan and Brazil, Christopher: China and Egypt, Aleksander: Amsterdam, a Eurail card stuck in a money slot.

Arthur grabs the passports, rushes to Fischer's room and takes his time looking at the collage of pictures he'd half-ignored the last time he'd seen them. There's the framed picture of Eames and Fischer at the Sphinx; the grainy, blurred bar picture of them downing shots of vodka with grizzled old men with bushy white beards and fur caps; Fischer in half open, black silk kimono yawning into the lens.

Them in Milan.

Eames's Chinese dragon tattoo.

Fucking _Rio_.

Arthur survived three tours of duty in Afghanistan; five years with the LAPD, was shot and died during a failed art heist, and puttered around in a vicodin and cigarette post-traumatic depression for months afterward.

None of that prepares him for the sudden onslaught of pain that rips through his chest.

\--

A pair of Eames's shoes peek out of his closet.

Like a man determined to eat the last bullet in his chamber, Arthur crouches down, flips up the tongue.

Size 10.

\--

Later that night, he digs his hands into his pockets, finds the red clay poker chip he'd taken from his bathroom before police showed up in some foolish attempt at revenge.

Eames's blood is flaked around the embossed edges. Arthur wants to crush it to dust, wishes he could stop the tightening in his gut at the sight of Eames's blood—at the memory it brings back. He'd almost died in Arthur's bathroom, curled up next to the toilet to try and stop the bloodloss.

Arthur knows he's not going to let this go, not even now.

An easy Google search pulls up the name of the casino, some seedy hole in the wall in Mombasa. It takes a little more research to find out Cobol Engineering, the second largest energy company in the world—Proclus Global's main competitors—are based out of Mombasa. Cobol can no longer compete with Saito, are bleeding money every day they don't declare bankruptcy.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out Eames was shaken down by Saito's rivals, was probably paid by them to steal Saito's art and would use the funds from a black market art deal to pull them through to the next quarter, keep them in the game long enough to make a pitch to the EU for a new energy plan that would make them trillions.

There's a line, at the end of an article from the Sydney Morning Herald, that mentions the long ago Proclus Global/Fischer-Morrow buyout that made Proclus's energy monopoly possible.

 _Fischer_.

Arthur can't type fast enough. Fischer-Morrow, the goliath of energy in the UK, was snatched up by its main competitor after Maurice Fischer died of cancer. Peter Browning, Maurice Fischer's right-hand, helped orchestrate the buyout, had Fischer-Morrow broken up and swallowed by Proclus, effectively making Saito a multi-billionaire overnight.

Browning walked away with six hundred million dollars and an island off the coast of Fiji.

Robert Michael Fischer, the only child of Maurice Fischer and the late Victoria Pewter, had his inheritance ripped from right under him with the stroke of a pen.

All four hundred million of it.

\--

Eames shows up at Arthur's door the day he's released, four days after his surgery.

Fischer has his arm hooked high around Eames's waist—far away from his stitches—propping him up. Eames is a chalky white color, his smile pained, but his eyes are warm, happy. Arthur feels sick, the sight of the both of them drives home how he can't allow them to escape. They've stolen fourteen pieces of art, are one piece away from a four hundred million dollar payout.

Arthur's going to arrest them.

Fischer grunts and transfers Eames's bulk into Arthur's shocked arms. Eames immediately wraps around Arthur, kisses his slack mouth warmly. When Fischer leaves a minute later, Eames sighs happily, mentions how it's good to be _home_.

The police are a phone call away.

He doesn’t know why the phone is so impossibly heavy in his hand.

He puts it down.

\--

Eames instantly falls back into his old patterns, albeit a bit stiffer, a little slower, none the wiser that Arthur knows his secret.

Arthur doesn't know how Eames can keep the charade up—is masochistically impressed at his devotion to his part: the funny, loving boyfriend that's so perfectly—too perfectly—suited for Arthur, was everything he could have wanted or hoped for. Eames was funny, creative, frustratingly intelligent. He was doting and understanding, would challenge Arthur when he didn't even realize he needed the push. And the sex was so good, so unbelievably exciting, satisfying on every level.

Looking back, Arthur realizes just how much of his hand he showed, how easy it had to have been for Eames to trap a desperately lonely, touch-starved ex-cop with a busted leg, trying to make his way in a new city.

Whenever Arthur dwells on Eames's long con, his body begins to shake, his chest constricts. He runs out of air one night while he's scrubbing a pot Eames made pesto in, ends up collapsing by the sink with Eames racing to his side, running his big, warm palms up and down Arthur's spine, shushing him desperately, kissing the side of his head helplessly.

He tries to keep up appearances as best he can, but he's no actor.

Eames notices immediately—always too observant when it came to Arthur's moods. Now Arthur knows why he put up with all the mood swings and late hours, his hideous crankiness immediately followed by his near insatiable need to fuck until his ass throbbed.

It had all felt so real, precious and amazing and all Arthur's to keep forever.

Eames seems to compensate for Arthur's distance by the second day by playing up the little idiosyncrasies that Arthur's always found charming or irresistible, crawls into their bed that night, naked and hard, his voice a rough purr that gets Arthur stiff and squirming. When Eames tilts his face up for a hard, sucking kiss, Arthur's stomach flips. He pulls away like a 1950s housewife and tells Eames he's too tired, curls a brutal fist around his cock and waits his erection out as Eames gapes behind him.

He starts sleeping at his desk, in his apartment only when he knows Eames will be out with Fischer. It only seems to encourage Eames—has him playing dirty with all of Arthur's weaknesses that he'd clearly been cataloging since day one. He plays up his accent, buys buttery almond tarts and Arthur's favorite wine, remembers to place his dirty tea mugs in the sink and even washes them after, offers backrubs that Arthur needs more than sleep, and puckers up for kisses that he never gets.

 _This isn't real_ , he reminds himself every new day when Eames is warm and cuddled around him when he wakes up. _None of this is real_.

\--

The first Saturday after Eames's surgery, he drops down next to Arthur on the couch without any thought to the stitches that are still bleeding just a little.

He pulls Arthur close, tucks into his side like always. His bare feet are cold and he digs them under Arthur's thigh, smiles wide and careless when Arthur tries to squirm. Two weeks ago, Arthur didn't think he was physically capable of recoiling away from Eames. Now, the disgust sits too heavy in his gut, makes him nauseous.

Eames's smile fades when he realizes Arthur isn't wiggling away from the chill of his toes. His brow scrunches attractively. He shifts, reaches for Arthur's face. Arthur pushes off the couch before Eames can touch. His heart slams once, painfully, in his chest.

"Want something to drink?" he asks, already heading to the kitchen. He made the mistake of looking back, caught the heartbroken look on Eames's face. It makes Arthur so angry—makes him want to slam his fists into Eames's face and then kiss him until they run out of air.

It should be easy to ignore something that was never really there to begin with.

Arthur fell in love with a con—a man who makes a living out of pretending to be different people, a character needed for the time being. Once Arthur's outlived his usefulness, Eames will shed his character and disappear, leaving Arthur all alone again.

"Arthur—" Eames begins, worry heavy in his voice. Thankfully Arthur's saved by Fischer's overly dramatic entrance.

Fischer's bedroom door slams and Arthur avoids a conversation he doesn't want to have.

Not yet.

Just... not yet.

\--

A piece of folded, yellow paper floats down onto his desk, makes Arthur spring up from where he'd been looking over a new floor layout for some antique vases.

Eames is behind him, arms crossed, face impassive. Arthur didn't even hear him come in—not the front door or his bedroom, the squeaky floorboards that groan if the wind blows across them.

"What's this?" he asks, reaches for the slip of paper.

"A doctor's note," Eames's voice is cool, "since you seem loath to touch me as of late. I _presume_ you're waiting for permission from a medical professional." 

The paper crumples in Arthur's grasp. His head begins to throb with the oncoming dregs of a monster headache. He can't keep this up much longer. It hurts too much.

"Eames," he begins, mouth dry.

"Is this because of what you said the morning you up and vanished on me?"

Arthur's face flushes, turns away from him. "What—"

"Because you left, Arthur," Eames tries to level his voice but he's being rushed, tries to get everything out in the open. Arthur realizes just how little they've been talking in the past week. "And it's damn unfair of you to hold that against me." He takes a fortifying breath. "If you'd stuck around—"

"We shouldn't be together anymore." Arthur interrupts, absolutely _cannot_ allow Eames to say what he was about to. He can almost hear Eames's incredulity.

"You're having a laugh." Eames sounds unsure, small. Nobody could be that good an actor.

"Are you amused right now?" Arthur says cruelly. He can't look at Eames, keeps his chin firmly lowered.

"I don't understand," Eames's confusion is slowly seeping into hurt, anger.

He takes a step closer, touches Arthur's shoulder. Arthur flinches. Eames drops his hand to his side.

"Is that it, then?" He's angry, Arthur knows him well enough to know that much.

Arthur needs to do this. He knows he does. Then on Monday, he'll call Saito and quit, tell him his carelessness and misguided trust allowed his painting to almost be stolen twice. Then he'll call the police and turn in Eames and Fischer, go back to America and lick his wounds.

"Yes."

He thinks Eames will leave then, might actually be able to end this nightmare without a scene.

Then he hears Eames's zipper being tugged down.

He spins around in time to see Eames shuck off his pants, kicks them toward the end of the bed.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"What you requested," Eames spits viciously as he tears off his t-shirt, is now clad in a pair of black boxer briefs that make Arthur's mouth water, even despite everything he knows. "Leave you but first 'fuck you into a coma', is it?"

"Get out," Arthur kicks out his chair. It smacks Eames in the knees as he stands. He tries to step past Eames but he pushes the chair until it falls far to the side, keeps Arthur firmly pinned to his desk. The edge is digging into the backs of Arthur's thighs uncomfortably, the proximity to Eames only reminding him how good he smells, how warm his bare skin is, how smooth it is under Arthur's tongue, how it pinks under his nails.

"What?" Eames's fists are balled, his jaw set harshly. "No longer gagging for my cock?"

"No great loss," Arthur hisses.

"You fucking liar," Eames pushes him down on his desk, boxes him in with his tanned arms. "I _love you_ , Arthur. You don't think I can tell when you're lying through your bloody teeth?"

Arthur clenches his jaw, swallows down his rebellious feelings, feeds off his anger, his betrayal.

"Fine," he snaps, pulls off his t-shirt and flings it angrily across the room. "Fuck me then. Get your fat dick in me and then get the fuck _out_ of my apartment."

Eames blanches, his body losing all its menacing tension. When he takes a step back, he ducks his head, looks away from Arthur but isn't quick enough to mask his hurt, his confusion.

The doctor's note is crushed under Arthur's left palm. He knows it's all an act, knows everything has been a lie. But he still wants Eames, can't stand the look on his face a second longer. He reaches for him, digs his nails into the soft skin at the back of his neck, yanks him forward until their bodies connect with a clap.

Eames wastes no time at all, hungrily attacks Arthur's mouth, holds him so tightly he gets dizzy. Arthur chases Eames's mouth, gives it just as good as he gets it, propels them forward until Eames hits the bed, brings Arthur down with him. Arthur immediately squeezes his knees around Eames's hips, fights to keeps Eames pinned down. Eames is squirming frantically, is trying to force Arthur to roll, but won't stop sucking on his lips long enough to gain any leverage.

When he gives up, works on pulling Arthur closer to his chest, Arthur starts to panic, realizes that after tonight, after he stops kissing Eames, it's all going to be over.

The way Eames holds his face makes Arthur want to claw at his skin. For one wonderful second, Arthur thinks he could pretend, could ignore everything he learned and keep Eames—could keep living with the lie for the rest of his life just as long as they can be together.

But then the second passes.

\--

For three days, Eames barely leaves Arthur's side.

There's a melancholy behind his eyes, his words, that strikes Arthur in his gut, makes him crumble apart. Whenever Arthur tries to pull away, to distance himself, he finds Eames drawing closer, enveloping him with his body and soft, loving words, his adoring tone, his worshipful gazes now tinged with panic.

He's not making it easy.

Arthur doesn't understand why Eames isn't trying to cut and run, why he isn't taking his opening and using it to shake off a ten month con.

Every night he leaves that option on the table and every night Eames crawls back to him, ignores everything that isn't Arthur's stiff, angry body, will wrap himself around him and hold on, ride out the storm until the next morning where the dance begins all over again.

\--

When the last day of the month rolls around, Arthur knows Fischer and Eames are going to strike.

He switches shifts, arranges it so he's the only person patrolling the painting, that every other on duty guard is on the opposite end of the museum. He timed it, earlier. It'll take everyone ten minutes to get to him sprinting—plenty of time to have Eames and Fischer scale down and set up their usual routine, disarm the frame with the code Arthur had conveniently left out at Eames's apartment four days prior.

By now, they have to know the guard rotation. Eames had called Arthur an hour before the way he'd taken after their almost breakup, gave Arthur the opportunity to lie to him about being in bed for the night, far away from the museum.

Around four in the morning, a good half hour after the last guard passed, Arthur hears the gentle whip of nylon rope dropping, the efficient clips of harnesses being attached, of bodies professionally sliding down. Eames darts toward the painting the moment his feet touch the ground, clips his silent alarm detector to the frame and begins working away at the sensors.

Fischer lands a few seconds after, immediately at Eames's side assisting. Up close, Arthur can see how he confused Fischer for a woman. He's wearing a utility belt that straps snugly around his torso, makes his thin waist appear even slimmer, his sweater bunched just enough at the hip to give off the appearance of curves.

When Eames successfully detaches the painting, he wraps it in a swatch of fabric and bags it in heavy plastic, straps everything to Fischer's back. Arthur has to step in.

He draws his gun, the sound of the safety clicking starling both Eamess and Fischer.

"Freeze," he shouts, takes a step into the light.

Fischer instinctively reaches for the gun strapped to his hip, but Eames immediately catches his wrist, squeezes it tight enough that Fischer gasps loudly. Eames is staring at Arthur, the confident, cocky power of his body deflating. In that moment, Eames knows, his clever brain puzzling everything out. He's been caught red-handed—has been defeated.

"Drop the painting," Arthur commands, moves in closer, small step by small step. Eames moves in front of Fischer, has his arms raised. The bulk of his body completely obscured Fischer and the painting from Arthur's line of vision. "Drop the painting _now_ or I'll shoot."

He hears the click of a fastener too late—should have known they'd have an easy exit plan.

Before his eyes, Eames and Fischer are yanked up the nylon rope by the mechanized level, are a blur of black in the moonlight. Arthur has a split second to reach, fires off three rounds in rapid succession. Each bullet hits Eames right in the chest, makes him shout in pain.

But they're already at the roof, the rope snaking up through the opening in the skylight they'd dropped down from.

Arthur takes off, knows the closest exit is ten meters away, hopes he can make it before they hit the ground.

When he gets outside, a freezing blast of air whips him across the cheeks. There's only one set of footprints in the fresh snow—a clear trail—one that heads not in the direction of Eames's apartment, but clearly towards Arthur's.

Arthur clenches his jaw. Eames is going to lead the police right to his front door, ruin his reputation—make him a suspect. Arthur squeezes around the gun in his hand. He's going to make Eames pay for this.

He takes off after him, carefully makes sure to step in his footprints, obscures his path as best he can until the wind and the snow blow over and cover them up for good.

\--

The cold and the hard sprint to his apartment have Arthur's fake knee throbbing furiously.

By the time he climbs the stairs to his front door, he wants to collapse, grits his teeth against the awful pressure. It's just a reminder of a fraction of the misery he's been subjected to since the night he foiled their robbery.

His front door is wide open, Eames's key still in the lock, the keychain still swaying lightly. He couldn't've beaten Arthur by more than a couple of minutes—not with the shots he managed to land.

He pushes the door open as quietly as he can, draws his gun, sees his bedroom illuminated in his pitch black apartment.

When he approaches the bedroom, he sees Eames, clenching his teeth, trying to undo his kevlar vest. Two of the three bullets Arthur fired are sticking out of the front of the vest, all an inch apart from each other. The other is buried in his shoulder, high near the bone. He's bleeding all over Arthur's comforter, his wooden floors.

He's sweating profusely, panting through clenched teeth. His skin is clammy, grey. He moves very slowly, looks like he can barely stand, wavers on his feet.

"Your rib is broken," Arthur states with certainty, makes sure his voice is as detached as he can.

Eames doesn't jump, just turns imperceptibly toward him in acknowledgement.

"I'm well aware, cheers." Eames grunts—ghastly white. He's not doing anything to staunch the bleeding in his shoulder—probably doesn't even realize he's been shot over the unbearable pain of his ribs.

Arthur's stomach twists. 

He marches into his bedroom, winds up, and punches Eames directly in the sternum, right above where his bullets landed. Eames lets off a brutal scream, immediately falls backward onto the bed like a crumpled marionette. His eyes are wide with pain, staggeringly blue. His mouth rounds, puckers, in a shocked circle.

Arthur wants to keep punching— _has_ to keep punching before he loses his nerve, breaks down and kisses him.

So he does.

"You fucking bastard!" Arthur shouts hysterically. His knuckles ache with every compact blow to Eames's kevlar vest. He's going to break his hand if he keeps it up.

Eames isn't defending himself, instead, clutches the bedsheets despondently. He's biting his tongue, tries to keep his screams at bay.

Arthur can hear the choked cries trapped in his throat, wants Eames to start howling, wants to cause him so much physical pain he might never recover from it, wants Eames to experience what he's going through right now.

After a while, the blows aren't satisfying anymore and his hand aches miserably. Eames hasn't moved once to protect his broken ribs from Arthur's assault. Arthur hates it. He wanted him to fight back.

Eames is desperately trying to cling to consciousness. Arthur slaps him hard across the cheeks, snaps him back.

He sits up, breathes heavily to compose himself. Once his anger is no more than a burn under his skin, he looks down, his voice biting.

"I already know why you did it," he begins.

He thinks of Cobol and how pleased they must have been when Eames and Fischer offered their services; Fischer gets revenge on Saito for screwing him out of a fortune and Cobol uses their main competitors funds to win them a contract that would put a dent in Proclus's finances for the next ten years.

"I want to know how much of it was a lie."

Eames breathes heavily, every inhale sounds like a coin rattling in a copper jug. He's bleeding copiously from his mouth, his nose. His shirt is damp with blood.

"Will you even believe what I tell you?" he grunts, blood bubbling at his full, gorgeous mouth.

"Start talking and we'll find out."

For a good minute, Eames is silent, his eyes stormy. Arthur can see the cogs in his head whirling—debating between the truth or a lie. Arthur digs his thumb into the bullet wound in Eames's shoulder.

Eames starts talking.

"At the beginning," Eames rasps, voice fading. "At the beginning, we had to be certain you hadn't puzzled it all out. Then we discovered you were replacing Saito's head of security."

Arthur tightens his jaw. He can feel his heart breaking in his chest all over agin. "So you fucked me for my security clearance."

"No," Eames coughs sloppily, in a rush. " _No_."

"Then _why_?" Arthur asks pathetically, desperate to know. "All you had to do was leave me out of it and you could have robbed the museum a hundred times over." And the bitter truth: "I'd've never caught you."

"You were so lonely and desperate the night we met," Eames reminisces. "And I knew it was because of what I did to you. But even then, even knowing what I made of you, you were fighting it. And you were so lovely."

He reaches up tentatively, brushes the pads of his fingers over the scars on Arthur's chest.

"I couldn't help myself."

"How much of it was a con?" Arthur repeats, voice frigid, his heart pounding.

"I never lied about what I feel for you," Eames begins, his emotions thick in his voice. "I do love yo—"

Arthur winds up, punches him as hard as he can right in the chest. Eames lets loose a scream that shakes the bed. His body jolts like it's been electrocuted before going still. There are tears in the corner of his eyes, his bottom lip sliced open from where he bit through it.

"Don't you fucking _dare_." Arthur's half-blind with rage, feels appalled and crushed and so, _so_ fucking hopeful he's choking on it.

"I bloody love you with everything I am," Eames continues stubbornly, talks over Arthur's ire, over the blows Arthur's started to reign down again. "I want to grow old with you."

Arthur's eyes sting, his throat clenches tight.

"Then how could you do this to me?"

"We needed that painting so the job would be over and I could finally have you."

"You watched me die," Arthur's voice crumbles. "You stood over me and watched me die after you fucking _shot_ me."

"We've had this conversation, Arthur," Eames says immediately, filled with conviction. "I can't apologize for what I did when it brought you to me."

"Goddammit," Arthur chokes, squeezes his eyes and digs his nails into Eames's shirt. Tentatively, Eames lifts his hands, cups Arthur's hips.

Arthur loves him. He fucking loves him with every atom in his body, the other half of his goddamn soul.

"I have to arrest you," Arthur laments, his voice cracking.

Eames nods, smiles so wide his eyes wrinkle.

"I know, my love. And I'll escape and go someplace very warm for you."

Arthur laughs, despite himself, feels his throat close and tears cloud his eyes.

"The police will run you down hard." Arthur strokes Eames's cheek, wipes away a fleck of his blood.

Eames cups Arthur's cheek, pulls him down for the briefest of kisses, a kiss that conveys all his love.

"Then I will lead them on a merry chase."

\--

Mombasa is gloriously hot.

The airport is tidy and quiet. Most of the people walking around are employed by the tiny boutiques. Arthur only took a carry-on with him, skips over the half dozen people waiting for their luggage and heads right to the rows of shiny taxis outside.

His destination is memorized from a postcard he'd received in the mail a month before; Fischer's neat scrawl informing Arthur ' _he's yours now_ '. He hands the postcard to the taxi driver, listens to terrible music all the way there, rolls down his window and lets the warm air whip across his sunburnt cheeks.

After twenty minutes, Arthur pulls up to a brown duplex with a small vegetable garden in the front. There's an attractive man with thick curly hair sitting on a chair, petting a sleek, ginger cat.

Arthur shoulders his bag, walks up the swept steps.

The man smiles like he's just ran into an old friend after years of being apart. "You must be Arthur." British by way of New Delhi, sounds intelligent. 

"I am," Arthur says, holds out his hand. The man takes it, shakes heartily.

"Yusuf." The cat jumps off his lap to wind around Arthur's legs. "Mr. Charles speaks of you often."

"Mr. Charles," Arthur snorts, feels his stomach flutter happily. "Is he here?"

"Indeed. He's been expecting you, I think."

Yusuf seems pleasant enough, has warm, clever eyes. He politely opens the door for Arthur, lets him into the main entrance that splits into two doors. Apartments 490 and 491. Arthur takes the left, turns the doorknob to 491. 

It opens easily.

When he steps inside, he drops his bag, turns toward the small kitchenette where Eames is leaning against the stove. He's still broad and muscular, somehow blonder than Arthur remembers. Even with the distance between them, Arthur can see the joy in his eyes.

If possible, Arthur falls in love all over again.

"Your neighbor seems nice, _Mr. Charles_ ," Arthur says, instead of what he's spent four months rehearsing.

"Ah, Yusuf," Eames says fondly. "Brilliant bloke. He's a professor of chemistry at the university but useless in the kitchen."

They stare at each other for a handful of minutes, take in their differences. Eames's hair is a little longer, his skin tanned. He's wearing a loose pair of blue cotton pants held up by a sleek belt. He looks down at his bare toes, embarrassed but pleased. 

"Pretty bold, coming to Cobol's backyard." Arthur dances around what he really means to say. 

Eames tuts softly. "Not when all the papers have been reporting for the last four months that Cobol Engineering has gone bankrupt due to some European art scandal."

Arthur wanders around the sparse apartment, picks up the little knickknacks he knows Eames bought without any thought, just to make the place seem lived in. 

"My employer was grateful for that anonymous phone call that tipped the police to the four hundred million dollars worth of stolen art at the CEO's house."

"He needed a bit of luck, didn't he?" Eames volley, deadpan. "Especially after that dastardly burglar of yours escaped en route to the jailhouse."

"My employer was happy enough recovering his art." Arthur picks up a framed picture on a scratched desk, one of them. He doesn't remember when it was taken, but Eames has him in his lap, has both arms securely fastened around his waist. The picture's a little pixelated, like it was taken on a cellphone and enlarged. "But I can't say he'd be happy to have said thief ever step foot in Paris again."

Eames loudly clears his throat before he softly says, "Took you long enough."

It's been four months. Arthur shouldn't be as affected by Eames's voice as he is. He thought that he'd be able to handle coming here, even with Saito's odd version of moral support.

"I'm just here on a little business, Mr. Eames," he finally says, tears his eyes away from the picture.

"Oh?" Eames has started to move in, is now close enough can Arthur smell him. "And what sort of business do you have in sunny Mombasa?"

"I'm scouting a new African headquarters for Proclous Global." Arthur's mouth goes dry at the sight of Eames's shoulder, puckered from stitches. "I could be here for months, maybe a few years." 

When Eames puts his hands on Arthur's shoulders, Arthur shakes. He crushes Eames to his chest, holds him so tightly his fingers go numb.

Eames clings just as tightly, breathes in deeply before burying his forehead in Arthur's neck.

"I've missed you so bloody much," Eames inhales, runs his palms up and down Arthur's sweat slicked spine, under his loose shirt.

"We're going to have to talk about this," Arthur says seriously, digs his nails into the firm muscles in Eames's smooth back. He can feel Eames nod feverishly, keeps inhaling his intoxicating scent. Even after all these months, Eames is still the best thing he's ever smelled, makes his mouth water and dick hard.

When Eames kisses him, he responds with an alarming need, one that reminds him it's been four long, agonizing months.

"But not right now," he amends urgently. Eames scoops him up under his knees, lets Arthur wrap his legs around his hips.

"Not right now," Eames agrees, smiles brightly and walks them toward the bedroom.


End file.
